


Not Leaving

by oleanderhoney



Series: Not Leaving [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adoption, Adult!John, Angst, Christmas!, FLUFF EVENTUALLY, Family, John will make it better, Kid!Lock, Other, Past Child Abuse, WIP, author knows nothing about tracking devices, but not for long, court stuff, kid!Sherlock, mind palace stuff, serious manly business, tw: abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-09 22:29:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 112,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oleanderhoney/pseuds/oleanderhoney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson thought this was it for him after he returned from Afghanistan -- runny noses and the tedium of working a job at a private practice. Aimless and bitter, he never thought he would find his purpose again. Enter Sherlock, a little boy desperately needing rescue from the wreckage of his life, and John gets more than he ever thought possible...a family. </p><p> <em>He was such a serious child, but he was incredibly smart. He saw things most people would find inconsequential and pieced them together to form a whole picture as easy as breathing. John didn’t know anyone that could do anything like that. All the more reason why it was a crime what had been done to him. How could anyone hurt a child as helpless and as innocent as he?</em> </p><p>  <em>Never again...</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all. OleanderHoney here. I have had this idea for a long time, and I wanted to explore this particular dynamic seeing as how I've looked, and haven't come across anything like this. I hope you all like it, and if any of you know me you know feedback is invaluable to me as a writer. This does talk a little about child abuse so if that is a trigger for you please be aware. There is no sexual abuse in this story however, because I am not very knowledgeable on the subject and I am trying to be as delicate as possible.
> 
> Usual disclaimers apply. I do not own Sherlock. The characters and basic plot lines belong to Moffat, Gatiss, and the BBC.

“A DEFINITION NOT FOUND  
IN THE DICTIONARY  
Not leaving: an act of trust and love,  
often deciphered by children.”  
― Markus Zusak, _The Book Thief_

* * *

Doctor John Watson hates house-calls. 

Most of the time, it was a couple of paranoid parents that read somewhere vaccinating their kids led to autism, or how hospitals can undoubtedly leave you exposed to more diseases than licking the turnstiles in the Underground. And that’s why even though their child was _clearly_ dying of rubella, they couldn’t take him/her/it/who-gives-a-shit in to be properly examined. And then proceeded to get angry at _him_ for wasting _their time_ when, in fact, the diagnosis turned out to be nothing more than heat rash or irritation most likely caused from changing detergents.

The other fifty-percent of the time turned out to be cantankerous old people oddly surrounded by unidentifiable odours which usually had nothing to do with their ailments. He wasn’t sure which was worse.

So, when Sarah asks him if he could drop in on one of their patients at the end of a very trying day filled with runny noses, an addict clearly doctor shopping, and at least one hypochondriac — _No Mrs. Cartwright, you do not have prostate cancer. You actually need a prostate first._ — he is...less than thrilled.

“Jefferson Hope?” John says, looking down at the patient print-out Sarah just handed him.

“Er, his son actually,” Sarah says. “He was scheduled to come in tomorrow, but he requested that if at all possible, he would prefer if someone would be willing to come out today and take a look at the little tyke’s arm. Apparently, it’s a pretty nasty sprain.”

“Well if it’s just a sprain, then is it completely necessary for me to make the trip to…” he glances down at the file, “Jesus ― Greenwich?”

“I don’t know what you’re used to, Doctor Watson, but this is a private practice, and here we believe in providing the best for our patients,” Sarah says.

“No, no. It’s fine. I just — it’s fine,” he says again trying to smooth any ruffled feathers. She had taken a risk in hiring him, invalided Army Doctor with PTSD and a psychosomatic limp like he was, and the last thing he wanted was to throw any good grace back in her face. He tries to smile amicably, but he’s not sure if he manages it. She seems to let it go, however, and hands him the standard packet of papers that is protocol for house visits.

“Thank you,” she says tersely, and leaves him standing in the middle of his office.

He clenches the handle of his cane and grits his teeth. _Great._ That was at least a forty minute Tube ride with two interchanges, because god knows cab fare doesn’t quite factor into his strict budget at the moment. He loathes the Underground. Too much standing. 

He sighs wearily, and grabs his bag and jacket. Treating colds, and dealing with the grievances of London transportation: how was this his life now? When only six months prior he was patching gun-shot wounds in the midst of a fire fight?

His hand shakes as he reaches for his scarf.

_Damn. What was the point anymore?_

* * *

The house is part of a duplex, and is in an area in North Greenwich that is especially worn down from the damp of the Thames and London weather. It’s the kind of neighborhood that gets by mostly on nostalgia and twitchy old ladies peeping from behind their curtains. At first glance, it’s rather mundane, but under the façade John doesn’t doubt it’s the type of community that has its secrets. By all means, he shouldn’t feel so paranoid, but old habits die hard. After all, at the very worst he could get attacked by a lawn ornament ― have to be vigilant. 

He makes his way up the set of steps, juggling his bag and cane rather awkwardly, and jabs the buzzer. 

He waits a few beats, shifting impatiently before he presses it again, holding for a bit longer. If he came all the way down here for bloody _nothing_ he was going to —

The faint sound of a scraping deadbolt from the other side of the door has John tilting his head expectantly. It is a slow process, careful and precise, followed by the deliberate turning of the door knob. Slowly, oh so slowly, the door opens, and John’s eyes travel down to where a pale, anxious face peers out at him through the crack.

“Um, hello?” John says.

The child, no more than five or six, blinks up at him from under his fringe of riotous black curls. The first thing John notices is just how big those eyes are — great blue orbs of innocence almost too big for his face that only grow wider when John kneels down in front of him. The little boy tracks his every movement, peculiar gaze flickering over his face and down to his hands before back up again. John notices there is something else behind those eyes, something intelligent and strange…the closest thing he can call it is _knowing._

“Is your dad home?” John tries after a moment. Small lips press into a thin line, and the door opens just a little more as if deciding whether or not to close it.

“He’s not my dad,” comes the quiet reply. “And – and he’s not here.”

John frowns. _“Someone_ called me to come and see you.”

“I did,” the child says a little louder. An expression of triumph crosses his face before he shutters it away almost as if ashamed. No, not ashamed. _Afraid._ John frowns, several red flags waving themselves ardently, causing him to take note. There was something not right about this picture; he could feel it. He observes a little closer, and notices the little boy's posture, hunched and anxious as if anticipating a harsh reprimand. His right arm tucked subconsciously against his chest like a broken wing.

There is a part of John that just knows this is more than a house call and a sprained wrist, and he tries his hardest to swallow down the anger building inside of him, along with it all the memories this particular feeling is tied to. It's difficult, but he tries to remind himself not to jump to conclusions, offering an open smile.

“My name is John Watson. What is yours?” he asks, gentling his voice.

“Sherlock,” the little boy says.

“Sherlock. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that name before.”

“It means bright hair,” Sherlock pipes. “English in origin. But my hair is dark. It’s a ox…oxy-mor-mon.”

John smiles a little. “An oxymoron?”

“Yes,” he says making a face. “Something that is the...opposite of what it is.”

“You are very smart, Sherlock. May I come in?” John says. 

Sherlock smiles fleetingly at the compliment. Then he says, “I’m not allowed to let in strangers,” and opens the door anyway.

“Too right. But I’m not a stranger,” John says picking himself up and following the small child into the house. On second glace, Sherlock seems a little small for five or six, his wan little frame not lending much to his overall height or stature. His clothes, which are much to big for him, practically hang off of him, pant legs scuffing the floor, sneakers clopping as they slip off his heels.

“I know. You’re a doctor,” Sherlock says and leads them passed the crammed living quarters filled with bookshelves simply overflowing with books. It smells like cigar smoke and mildew, and there is a distinct, clammy chill in the stale air. Other than a stuffed bumblebee sitting on the sofa, there are no other indications that a child lives here.

“How old are you, Sherlock?” John says, continuing to probe for information.

“I think I’m five and a half,” Sherlock says thoughtfully, and with one hand pulls a dining chair up next to the work top.

“What do you mean, you think?” John says, coming further into the dank kitchen.

With careful balance, Sherlock climbs dutifully onto the chair and sits on the counter. He shrugs, his ratty t-shirt slipping briefly over the crest of one shoulder, exposing it to the chill of the draught whistling in from the window. He shivers.

“That’s how old I feel,” he replies. “There are children that look like me in some of my books.”

John comes over and sets his med kit down, searching the boy’s face. “Do you not know when your birthday is?”

“What's a birthday?” Sherlock says, tilting his head. John reels in disbelief. _What child didn’t know about birthdays?_ A neglected one, that's what.

“Sherlock…” he says trying to keep his voice from breaking. “Does your father know I’m here?”

Sherlock’s eyes grow impossibly wide, his lip wobbling a little even though he tries to hold it back. “He’s _not_ my father,” he says, curling in on himself.

“Who do you live with?” John says pulling up a stool so he could sit a little more at eye-level with him.

“Mister Hope. He takes care of me when…when my father is away,” Sherlock says, breath hitching over the words.

“Is there a number for him that I can call —?”

“No! No you can’t, please!” Sherlock suddenly cries out, a sudden, visceral reaction to that suggestion that has the klaxons blaring in John's head.

Sherlock goes to scramble off the counter, and John tries to stop him, but he drops to the floor, back pressing hard into the cabinets. “I shouldn’t have called you! You need to go away, now. I don’t want to get in trouble!”

“Hey, hey, it’s all right,” John says trying to soothe, crouching down again and placing a hand on a thin shoulder. He can feel him shaking, so John gives him a light squeeze. “We don’t have to call anyone.”

“We don’t?” Sherlock says, clutching his arm to him again in a move that is instinctively protective.

“Of course not,” John says. “You did the right thing, calling me. Don’t you forget that.”

Sherlock still looks unsure, but after a moment he nods. He exhales on a sob, relief finally causing the tears to break free. They roll down his cheeks in two fat drops all the way down to his chin. “My arm — it really hurts.”

“Let’s see if I can do something about that. Sound good?” John says, and Sherlock nods again. John gingerly lifts the little boy up under his arms and sets him back on the work top noticing at once how frighteningly underweight his is. “Is it this one?” he asks, gently drawing Sherlock’s right arm away from him and supporting it with one hand. With his other, he lightly palpates the area of the forearm that is clearly swollen.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, biting his lip in pain. However, he watches John with growing fascination, tears held at bay for the moment.

“When did this happen?” John asks, keeping his voice neutral in case his prodding upsets him again.

“On...Monday. The last time Mister Hope was here,” Sherlock says. John closes his eyes. It was currently Wednesday. _Two days, Christ._ Two days of being alone, scared, and in pain. Who ever this sick bastard was, he deserved to be run over twice by a bloody train.

“Sherlock. Did Mr. Hope do this to you?” John asks him carefully, yet directly.

Sherlock’s breathing accelerates again, and he screws his eyes up tight. “I can’t tell you,” he says.

“Yes you can. You can tell me,” John says, but Sherlock isn’t listening, giving in more and more to panic. He jerks his arm out of John's grasp in a move that has to hurt, but he doesn’t cry out. Instead he tries to fold in on himself as far as he can, trying desperately not to make a sound as silent sobs wrack his frame. It is the very picture of a child who knows that crying equals punishment in his little world, unaware that there is a reality that exists outside of fear and pain.

“Sherlock. Sherlock, stay with me, okay?” John says trying to get him to uncurl a bit in attempt to bring him out of his head. His breathing is becoming erratic, and the colour is steadily draining from his face. John tucks his fingers under his neck feeling for a pulse, and curses inwardly. It’s fast and irregular, a combination of acute stress and mostly likely low blood sugar. When was the last time he ate a proper meal? Far, far too long, he would bet.

No. This simply would not do.

Without thinking twice, John gathers the little boy up into his arms, not at all shocked when he clings to him like a little sea urchin, a wiry arm around the back of his neck and legs tight around his waist. The poor thing is obviously starved for affection, among other things, and is absolutely scared witless. He buries his face into John’s jumper and continues to hold back tears as John shoulders his kit and makes his way out of the kitchen.

On his way out of the flat, he grabs the stuffed bumblebee sitting on the couch, and doesn’t look back. The whole of him is filled with a protective rage that spurs him on with a single-minded purpose: get Sherlock to safety.

His strides are even and his hands are steady where they hold the small, shaking body to his own.

His cane is left standing against the front door, completely forgotten.

***

“St. Bart’s, please,” John says slipping into the cab with his arms full of trembling child. “The quicker the better.”

“You got it, mate,” the cabbie says, eyeing them closely as he pulls away from the kerb. After a moment, John sees the driver flick off the fare. He is immensely grateful, and makes a mental note to give him a healthy tip.

“Sherlock?” John says gently. Sherlock winces, and presses his face into John’s collarbone hard enough to hurt. “It’s all right. I’m just taking you to a friend of mine where he can look at your arm.” This only makes the boy shake harder, and John is rapidly running out of ways to keep him calm. He suddenly remembers the bumblebee, and grabs it from its place next to his med bag. “I’ve brought along someone. Can you tell me his name?”

At first, John thinks Sherlock is too catatonic to register what’s even going on, but after a moment, he moves ever so slightly. John feels soft curls tickle his chin as Sherlock turns his head to peer out from his hiding place.

“There you are,” John intones, holding the toy closer. Sherlock reaches out with his uninjured arm, and wraps his fingers around one of the fuzzy antennae. He doesn’t pull it to him at first, he merely rubs it between his fingertips in a soothing repetitive manner. Finally, as if unsure if hes' really allowed, he brings it close and hugs it to him. After a minute, his shaking eases some, and John hears him murmur softly to the plush toy. Then, so quietly that John almost misses it, he says,

“Did someone hurt your arm too?”

“What do you mean?” John asks. Sherlock sits back in his lap so he could gaze up at him with his imploring, blue eyes still bright with tears.

 _“Your_ arm,” he repeats. “It hurts too.”

Before John has a chance to wonder, Sherlock brings his hand up and places his palm over John’s left shoulder — right where his old gunshot wound is.

“How do you know that?” John says, mouth dropping open.

Sherlock's spine goes rigid, a string of words falling from his lips rapid fire as if on a hair-trigger. 

“You carried me but it hurt. You use your left hand for most things so you didn’t notice, but I did. Every five steps you pulled me up higher because I kept slipping. Your hand shakes sometimes, too. Someone hurt you real bad like they did me because you’re better but the hurt is still there. It was someone far away though,” he says frowning.

“Far away?” John says, somewhat at a loss.

“Because of your hands,” Sherlock says tracing a finger around the faded tan line around his wrist. “and your face,” he touches the same finger to his cheek. “It’s too many clouds in England. Where did you go when you got hurt?”

“I was in Afghanistan,” John says, stunned.

“Were you fighting? Bad men?” Sherlock asks meekly.

“I was mostly helping the hurt ones,” John replies. Sherlock nods thoughtfully to himself, and John smiles a rueful smile. He was such a serious child, but he was incredibly smart. He saw things most people would find inconsequential and pieced them together to form a whole picture as easy as breathing. John didn’t know anyone that could do anything like that. All the more reason why it was a crime what had been done to him. How could anyone hurt a child as helpless and as innocent as he?

“Your leg is hurt too, but now it’s better,” Sherlock says breaking his train of thought. John starts abruptly, realising he doesn’t have his cane with him. “It’s not the same hurt as this,” Sherlock continues, that small hand resting back over his shoulder. It's warm and seems to radiate right through to John's heart. “Your leg only hurts you when you are sad.”

“How could you _possibly_ know that?” John says, completely bowled over. Sherlock mistakes his roughened voice for something else, something harsher, and he snatches his hand away, seeking his bumblebee that had momentarily fallen between them.

“I’m sorry!” he says, the word muffled through the stuffed toy as he brings it up to his face.

“Hey, now,” chides John, clearing his throat. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. That was incredible.”

Slowly, the furry mass of yellow and black lowers itself revealing those brilliant eyes once more. “Really?”

“Of course. It was extraordinary,” John says, completely beside himself. “You are a very smart little boy.”

Sherlock blinks owlishly at him, expression morphing into one of confusion. “That’s not what people usually says,” he whispers.

“What do people usually say?”

Instead of answering, Sherlock tucks his head back under John’s chin, fingers absently playing with his scarf. He still continues to shiver from time to time, but John can't tell if it's from the chill or just a stress reaction. With one hand John rubs circles into his back, frowning when he can feel one too many vertebrae. He pulls his bag over and rummages around for something, and finds a packet of biscuits at the bottom.

“Are you hungry?” John asks, and Sherlock stiffens.

“No,” is the wooden reply.

“You’re allowed, it’s okay,” John tires again, bringing the biscuits closer. Sherlock’s breath hitches and he turns his head away, and John tucks them back out of sight. “All right. You don’t have to.” He resumes his stroking, and pulls out his mobile. He dials a number, and presses it to his ear, hoping that it won’t go into voicemail. After the third ring, someone picks up.

_“Dr. Stamford speaking.”_

“Hey, Mike. It’s John Watson from Sawyer Private Practice.”

 _“John, mate! It’s been a while. What can I do for you?”_ Mike says cheerfully.

“Yeah, uh, are you at Bart’s today?”

_“No, but I can be. What’s seems to be the problem?”_

“I have someone I really need you to see. It’s kind of an urgent case.”

 _“Who’s the patient?”_ Mike says, and John can hear rustling in the background as he grabs his things.

“Little boy between four and six. I’m not sure, but I think it’s a greenstick fracture to his right radius.”

 _“Oh…is that all?”_ Mike says.

“No. No that’s not all. I was wondering…does your wife still work for social services?” John says trying to impart the gravity of the situation without alarming Sherlock. There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other end as his colleague fits the pieces together.

_“Yeah she does. Do you want me to bring her with me?”_

“I think you better, Mike. It’s…it’s really bad,” John says lowering his voice.

 _“Jesus,”_ he sighs resignedly, _“All right, we’re on our way. I’ll call ahead so we can get you in right away. Just tell Jennifer who you are, and she’ll show you back.”_

“Thanks, mate,” John says. “Thank Michelle for me too, will you?”

 _“Of course,”_ Mike says, and rings off.

John slips his phone back into his coat pocket, and pinches the bridge of his nose. He tries to quell the sudden sweep of nausea welling up inside of him. God, he fought a war against some of the most horrendous atrocities of mankind only to come home to _this?_ The cruelty of men really doesn’t discriminate in the end. It was bloody sickening. John hated to think what else Sherlock might have been subjected to, and he has to stop his thoughts from spiraling down much darker avenues. _One thing at a time, Watson._

He glances down, and sees that Sherlock has fallen asleep, his tiny fist still clutched in the blue scarf around John's neck as if afraid he would disappear. John sighs, carding his fingers through the baby soft hair, his throat searing with sudden emotion when Sherlock whimpers at the touch, trying to curl up in a ball as a new spate of tears overtakes him.

“Shh, I’ve got you,” John murmurs, and continues to rub his back. He finally settles down just as they approach the hospital, and John tries his hardest not to jostle him too much when he gets out of the cab.

Sherlock’s eyes finally fly open, and there’s a moment of panic as he cries out and frantically grabs onto the front of John’s coat.

“Wh – where – where —?”

“We’re at the hospital, remember? Going to see my friend so he can make your arm feel better,” John says heading for the lifts.

“There’s lots of people here,” Sherlock says, voice hoarse. He squeezes his eyes shut a few times, scrubbing his good arm over his tear-stained face. “Lots of stories. Too many stories. Make my head hurt.”

“You can close your eyes,” John says, and Sherlock does what he’s told, the intense shaking starting up again making his teeth chatter. “Hey, Sherlock?” John says, and idea forming as they wait for the lift to take them to paediatrics, “How high can you count?”

“I c – can count really high,” Sherlock say against his chest. “Really high if I wanted. Prolly forever. Numbers don’t run out.”

“That’s right they don’t. Can you count to one hundred for me? By the time you finish, you can open your eyes.”

“Okay…” he says, and starts counting in a steady rhythm.

The lift finally comes, and they walk in. It's only a few stops along the way before they finally make it to paeds, and John reads the directory for the correct suite for Stamford’s office.

Sherlock is still counting by the time they make it back into the small exam room, and John waits for him to finish.

“…ninety-nine, one hundred,” he says stilling, fist clenching anxiously in John’s scarf again.

“Very good. You can open them now, I promise. It’s just us here.”

Sherlock makes a little whine in the back of his throat, but with a bit more encouragement from John, finally opens his eyes. His lips part in astonishment as he looks around the colourful room with dancing teddy bears on the walls, and a shiny red fire truck table in the corner. He hugs his bumblebee to his chest, head on a constant swivel until it comes to rest on the plastic skeleton in the corner. He gasps a little, and John looks into his face for any signs of distress, but what he finds instead is bright curiosity.

“Bones,” he mouths, eyes wide.

“That’s right. Do you want to see?” John asks, and Sherlock nods vigourously. John gets closer to where Sherlock can touch if he wanted. He doesn’t, but he gazes at the skeleton with rapt fascination.

“Maxilla,” he says, looking back to John.

“Hm?”

“Maxilla,” he says a little louder and puts a finger to John’s cheek again. The finger travels to the arch of his eyebrow. “Supra-or-bital process,” he enunciates. John blinks in surprise.

“Very good. How do you know that?”

“I read it,” Sherlock says and sighs. His small hand cups John’s jaw. “Mandible.” Down to his collar bone, “Clavicle.” He turns to look at the skeleton again in contemplation. After a moment he asks in a hushed voice, “Is it real?”

“No. He’s just pretend,” John says. Sherlock sags in relief.

“Okay.”

The sound of a knock alerts them, and John turns as Mike Stamford enters the room. 

“Why, hello there!” Mike says with a smile, and Sherlock tenses.

“It’s all right, Sherlock. This is my friend, Dr. Stamford.”

“Are you going to look at my arm?” Sherlock asks tremulously. 

“If that’s okay with you?” Mike says taking a few steps towards them. Sherlock thinks for a moment, looking back at John for guidance, and John nods.

“Doctors make people better,” he says, seemingly steeling himself. He looks back to Stamford. “Okay.”

“You’re very courageous,” Stamford says, and John sets him down on top of the exam table covered in paper. “Who’s your friend?” Stamford asks, pointing to the stuffed bee in Sherlock’s lap.

“His name is Geoffrey,” Sherlock says playing with the floppy felt wings.

“Has Geoffrey ever been to the doctors?” Stamford says patting the bee on the head as if he were real.

“No,” Sherlock says with a funny little frown.

“Oh, well do you mind if I listen to his heart for a check up?” Stamford says playfully. He removes the stethoscope from around his neck.

“Geoffrey doesn’t have a heart,” Sherlock says. “He’s full of stuffing.”

Stamford blinks, and John laughs. “Good try, Mike. Can’t pull one over on him, the clever little bugger,” Sherlock’s lips waver in an almost-smile for a moment, but it disappears only to be replaced with another fretful expression. John gives a sly look to Mike, another idea forming. “You can have a listen to me, Dr. Stamford. I haven’t been to the doctors in a while for my check up.”

Stamford nods, playing along, and goes to put the stethoscope in his ears. He pauses, looking back to Sherlock. “Actually, would _you_ like to listen to John’s heart for me?”

Sherlock’s eyes grow wide, and he looks between the two as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Can I?”

“Of course,” Stamford says, and hands Sherlock the stethoscope, helping him position it correctly in his own ears. John takes off his coat and scarf, and pulls off his jumper to where only his undershirt remains. He hesitates for a moment before he takes that off too, and watches as those piercing eyes settle over the gnarled flesh of his scar. 

Sherlock cocks his head to the side as he looks at it. Tentatively he reaches out and traces a finger over the starburst epicentre, then trailing outwards to follow the arc lines shrapnel left in their wake. He finally meets John’s gaze again, and in a solemn voice he says,

“Hurt real bad?”

John regards the little boy for a moment and nods. “Yes it did. But it doesn’t hurt too much now.”

Sherlock considers this, his palm covering the old wound once more. After a minute he seems satisfied, and he looks up to Stamford. 

“Wanna give it a listen?” he asks, and Sherlock nods. “All right then,” he says and guides the stethoscope to rest directly in the centre of John’s chest. 

Sherlock’s face practically lights up like a Christmas tree at this, and it’s instantly one of the best things John’s seen in his entire life. He vows that Sherlock should look like that always — so full of wonder and curiosity — not this scared little waif of a thing.

“There are four chambers in the human heart,” Sherlock says.

“That’s correct,” Stamford says. “Smart lad.”

“Two ven...ven- _tri_ -cles and two atriums,” he recites, lowering the stethoscope.

“Fantastic,” John says beaming at him, and he manages to pull out the faintest of smiles from Sherlock. “Do you think Dr. Mike can listen to you now?”

Sherlock looks down at the stethoscope in his hand for a moment before nodding. 

“Okay,” he says and hands it over. He grabs the hem of his oversized t-shirt with his uninjured hand, and goes to pull it over his head like John did, but hesitates, suddenly wracked with panic.

“It’s all right,” John encourages, ignoring the chill of the room. “Do you need help?”

Sherlock nods, blinking rapidly, the tears from pain or anxiety John doesn’t know. Carefully, he reaches out, and lifts the shirt, being mindful of Sherlock's right arm, and pulls it over his head.

What he sees makes his eyes widen, and his stomach flip.

If John thought he was thin before, seeing him like this, he’s nearly transparent. Every time Sherlock takes a breath, his narrow rib cage moves under his skin, protruding in a way that makes him look unbearably fragile. There’s also a large, yellowish bruise over his abdomen in the final stages of healing, as well as a few fresh ones dappling his upper arms. Fingertip bruises, he realises. He shares a knowing glance with Stamford, and has to train his gaze on the far wall in order to tamp down the rage that is slowly building inside of him.

“Okay, Sherlock,” Stamford says, breathing on the stethoscope's chestpiece in order to warm it. He places it on Sherlock’s back. “Give us a deep breath.”

Sherlock does what he is told, beginning to tremble as the much cooler air causes goose bumps to rise up on his skin. John places a warm hand over Sherlock’s back as Stamford moves to the front and repeats the process.

“You did very good,” he says looping the stethoscope back around his neck.

“Here,” John says, helping Sherlock into the plain white undershirt John was wearing. There was no way he was going to let him wear that disgusting t-shirt again. He puts it over Sherlock's head, and carefully guides his arms through the shirt sleeves before donning his own jumper. “Sherlock. I am going to ask you a question now, and I need you to do your very best to answer it. Can you do that?”

“I’ll try,” Sherlock answers bravely even though he continues to shake. John grabs his coat and drapes it over Sherlock's shoulders.

“There's a lad,” John says. He swallows thickly, not sure if he wants to hear the answer to the question he knows he needs to ask. He takes a breath, anxious knots tangling in his gut, “Are you hurt anywhere else besides your arm? And I mean _anywhere._ You mustn’t be afraid to tell me, it’s very important.”

Sherlock closes his eyes, his brow fretting in distress as he attempts to keep his lips tightly sealed. Eventually, he gasps, his mouth opening in a sob, and terrified, he says, “My – my leg hurts too. It’s a old hurt, but it’s not getting better.”

“Which one?” John says, and Sherlock bends forward so he can pull up his right trouser leg. John helps him tuck the baggy fabric over his knee, and gasps at the sight. 

There, on the side of his calf, is a circular burn mark the size of a fifty pence piece. It’s old, perhaps a week or so, and horribly inflamed and leaking a bit of pus. It is clearly infected, and John grits his teeth in anger. It he were to guess, he would say it was from a cigar.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock sobs, and John’s eyebrows arch up in surprise.

“No, no, no, love. There’s nothing for you to be sorry for. Absolutely nothing, do you understand?” John says earnestly, cupping Sherlock’s face between his palms. He wipes a tear away with his thumb. Sherlock looks at him, tremendously confused, lip quivering. John feels as if his chest is breaking apart. “Now, after we get that fixed up, we are going to go with Dr. Mike so we can take a picture of your arm. Sound good?” He tries to give the most encouraging smile he can manage.

Sherlock nods minutely, and without thinking, John presses a light kiss on the crown of his head. He takes a few steps to the door, suddenly needing air so he can regroup from the swirly turmoil inside of him.

“Don’t!” Sherlock cries when he almost makes it out into the corridor, giving John no choice but to rush back to his side. “D-don’t leave!” is his distraught plea.

“I’m just going to go get something to drink I’ll be right back, okay?” John says. Sherlock doesn’t believe him, and weakly fists his hand in John’s jumper.

“Please, please,” he mouths brokenly with barely any sound.

John grabs his blue scarf that is draped over the back of a chair. He tucks it around Sherlock’s neck, and hunkers down so he is eye-level with him.

“You see this scarf? As long as you have it, I will always come back to you, all right? I’m _not_ leaving. I won’t leave you,” John says.

Sherlock takes a hiccoughing gulp trying to will away his tears. “P-promise?”

“I promise. I’ll be just out there, okay?”

“Okay,” he whispers.

John doesn’t look back as he leaves, desperately trying to keep it together. He bolts for the loo and makes it just in time, locking the door soundly behind him. His leg twinges as he stands in front of the narrow mirror, and he braces himself over the sink, his breathing becoming jagged and sharp. Memories he had locked away so long ago surge to the surface with a vengeance, bringing with them all the anger, confusion, and pain he had experienced in his own childhood. He feels sick, and turns on the tap, letting the white noise of rushing water ground him somewhat. He pats some of the cool water on his face and the back of his neck, washing away the clammy sweat, and with it all of the broken images of his past. After a moment the bursts of light in his vision fade, and he straightens his spine, nodding at himself in the reflection.

_Never again._

He wasn’t a little boy anymore. He was a soldier, a doctor. He had power now that he didn’t have when he was the one under his own father’s heel, and if there is anything, _anything,_ he can do for Sherlock, he can and he will.

_Never again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Edited 22/10/2015


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness you guys. I can't believe the response I got from this. So here is chapter two. Your comment spurred me on to get this up there as fast as I can, and I hope you all like it.

Sherlock wears the scarf all the way through the x-ray and is extremely brave, even though John can't be in the room with him. 

John watches him through the small window in the booth as the technician drapes the giant lead apron over his front, and gently positions his arm under the crosshairs. She asks him something, and Sherlock nods, dark curls bobbing. She points to the window, and Sherlock follows her finger. After a moment he waves, and John waves back, the bumblebee clutched in his hand even though Sherlock can’t see through the tinted glass.

“Has he said anything else besides the name of the man he was living with?” Michelle says next to him.

“No. I don’t even know Sherlock's last name,” John says.

“I’m not even sure Sherlock is his first name,” Michelle says, arms crossed. “My gut instinct was that he was kidnapped, but when I checked with my sources, there are no missing children with that name.”

“Sources? Wait, you’ve called the police already?” John says, turning to her.

“John,” she says, fixing him with a look. “You’ve read the papers right? Seen the news?”

“Er…not recently? I’m afraid I don’t have a telly,” John says.

“Jefferson Hope has been in custody since this morning for driving four people to commit suicide,” she states.

John blinks at her, incredulous. “I thought the ‘serial suicides’ were just tabloid rubbish. How can someone force you to kill yourself with poison?”

“So you have seen the papers,” Michelle says.

“Well, yeah. It’s kind of hard not to notice when something that audacious is splashed across every news stand. Have they done a press release yet?”

“No. The Detective Inspector on the case doesn’t want any more publicity for this than there already is. I only know of Hope’s involvement due to my source. Sergeant Donovan is on the team working the case. She and the DI are coming to assess the boy for witness competency, and decide if he qualifies for special measures,” Michelle says.

“What, today? He’s been absolutely traumatised. I don’t even think he’s ever been out of that house until today, and you want to stick him in a room so strange people can ask him questions about his tormentor?” John says, his censure growing by the second. “He damn near fell apart when I tried to get him to tell me how he hurt his arm.”

“John. I understand you’re upset, but it’s out of my hands. That little boy is part of a homicide investigation. Who knows what he’s witnessed?”

“That little boy is a _little boy!”_ John says, raising his voice. The technician shushes him as she continues to snap images of Sherlock’s arm.

Michelle looks at him, circles under her eyes, her lips pinched tight. “Don’t you think out of all people that I would know that?” she says wearily, and John feels bad for losing his temper. He breathes out a steady breath through his nose, and rubs his forehead with his fingers.

“No you’re right. I’m – I’m sorry. I want to help. Tell me how I can help,” John says, contrite.

“I’m going to need pictures of his injuries for documentation,” Michelle says. “He trusts you, and if you are with him that will make everything a lot easier.”

“Am I allowed to be with him when they question him?”

“I don’t know. Generally speaking, he should have his guardian with him, but since there isn’t one, a _guardian ad litem_ will be appointed on his behalf. They are most likely bringing in one that works directly with the Met.”

John’s jaw tenses, but he nods his head.

“Then what happens?” John asks. He watches through the window as the technician takes the apron off of Sherlock and gives him a lolly. He looks down at it as if he’s never seen something like it before in his life, (and in all honesty he probably hasn’t) and tucks it carefully away into his trouser pocket.

“Then,” she says sighing, “we work on getting him placed.”

“I'll take him,” John says abruptly. He didn’t even know he was going to say the words until he did, and they took him momentarily by surprise. However, they felt sure and right. More so than he's felt in a long while.

“John, I know you feel like you have an obligation to Sherlock because you were the one who found him, but there are people who are…” she trails off trying to find the right word, and John scoffs.

“More stable?” he offers dryly.

“You did technically abduct him,” she points out.

“Oh, what? You wanted me to just wrap up his arm and say ‘See ya later kid, hope the deranged psychopath you’re living with eventually comes back.’ What horse shit.”

“Most people would have waited to make sure their assumptions were authenticated. There is protocol for this sort of thing. You know that,” she says as they exit the booth and head back to the exam room.

“Sod protocol. I got him out of there. He was completely on his own. I prevented him from endangering himself further. Don’t yank me around with your technicalities,” he growls.

“John,” Michelle says grabbing his arm forcing them to stop just outside the room. “You have to consider what that looks like from the court’s point of view. You look reckless and impulsive, and you already have a history of anger issues. If you really care for him, you have to think of what’s best for Sherlock, now.”

John deflates, conceding her point. He bows his head unable to meet her eyes. “It’s not obligation,” he says softly. “I’ve never felt this way before, and I can’t explain it, but I know I’m what’s best for him.”

“John…” she says tiredly, pressing her fingertips into her left temple.

“I made a promise to him, Michelle,” he says, nearly pleading with her at this point. She huffs a breath out of her mouth causing her blonde fringe to fly up. “Just tell me what I need to do, and I’ll do it.”

“You need to keep your temper in check for one thing, John Watson,” she says jabbing a finger into his chest.

“Yes,” he says quickly. “Yes, duly noted.”

“And the most I can try to do is set you up for an interim period. That would be the best bet, and with my recommendation you could possibly be considered as a more permanent candidate once they figured out his proper Care Order.”

“Okay. Let’s do that,” John nods.

“And you need to find yourself a therapist.”

“...What?” John says frowning.

“You heard me. With your past it’s bound to come up, and if you think I’m comfortable with leaving a child with a repressed emotional time bomb such as yourself without ordering him to work through his own issues, then you are barking.”

John swallows hard, but attempts to grin at her. “You’re a bit of a bully, aren’t you?”

“No, John. I am extremely good at what I do,” she says, her tone cutting. “Just think about what this will do to him if this doesn’t work out. If _you_ don’t work out.”

“I — I understand,” John says, finally realising the gravity of the situation. The task seems daunting all of a sudden, and he stares off in the distance over Michelle’s shoulder. _Was_ he the best bet for Sherlock? This was a child, after all. Not a gold fish. He would have to take care of him, provide for him, foster his development, and most importantly nurture him like he so desperately needed. God forbid he fuck that up like _his_ father did. There were so many ways he could fail that little boy, endless ways he could compound the damage already there. 

“John,” Michelle’s voice pulls him out of the mire of his self doubt, and she puts a hand against his cheek. “You have a big heart. No one is doubting your ability to love him. But I know what you went through better than anyone. Regardless of Sherlock, you deserve it to put the demons of your past to rest once and for all. Besides, he’s going to need his own therapy, and it might help him to know he’s not alone through the process.”

John shoves his panic down and exhales. “Maybe…you’re right.”

She scoffs and taps his cheek with a little smack. “I am right, you berk.”

“Michelle Dayton, everybody,” John says wryly. “Right about all things.”

“It’s Michelle Stamford now,” she smiles. “Now come on. Brave faces.”

John straightens his spine and smooths the wings down on Geoffrey the bumblebee for courage. “Right.”

They open the door, and find Mike sitting with Sherlock at the small fire truck table. Sherlock, for his part, is looking dubiously down at a box of crayons, worrying the removable splint around his right arm. He looks up when they come in, and his eyes tack immediately onto John with something akin to relief. He holds out his hands, and John delivers his toy safely back into waiting arms.

“How’s your arm?” John says pulling up a small chair next to him.

“Itches,” Sherlock says quietly, attempting to scratch between his fingers. He shrugs. “Hurts less.”

“That’s good,” John says. Sherlock nods and twists around in his seat. He points to the x-ray film lit up on the wall.

“My bones,” he says with something of a smile. John sweeps his gaze over the film, noting that it was indeed a buckle fracture to the wrist. Probably caused by someone twisting his arm. He swallows, trying not to think on it because it will only just make him angry again. “Who is she?” Sherlock asks, looking to where Michelle and Mike were discussing something in low tones.

“That’s Dr. Mike’s wife. She’s going to ask you a few questions in a minute.”

“Why isn’t she in the hospital?” Sherlock says. John frowns, not sure he understands, but before he can say anything, Michelle comes over with her briefcase and sits across from them with a smile.

“Hi,” she says warmly, nodding to her husband as he leaves the room before giving her full attention to Sherlock. “My name is Michelle. Can you tell me yours?”

“Sherlock,” he says, eyes warily sliding away from hers.

“I like that name very much, Sherlock,” Michelle says. “Did you know I have two names? Most people do. For example my name is Michelle Stamford, and you already know John Watson. Do you have two names, Sherlock?”

“I – I don’t know,” he says, face pinching in distress as he stares down at the table. His hands grip onto the stuffed bee to the point where it makes the splint around his wrist creak.

“It’s all right. You’re not in trouble if you don’t know,” Michelle says softly.

Sherlock looks in between John and Michelle, startled. “I’m not?”

“Of course not, sweetheart. Do you usually get in trouble for not knowing things?”

He presses his lips together, and gives a frightened little nod. “I’m supposed to know things,” he finally whispers.

“Can you tell me what that means, Sherlock?” Michelle prods gently.

Sherlock makes a little noise in the back of his throat, but he screws up his face in determination. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, trying to find the words that seemed to get tangled up inside of him. Finally, he looks up from searching the table top, but instead of looking at Michelle, his eyes light on John.

“My father says I’m special. He says I’m a good storyteller because I am the only one who can read them. Sometimes I have to come along with my father and Mister Hope so I can read the stories,” Sherlock says, gaze never leaving John’s.

“What stories, sweetheart?” Michelle says, and he finally looks at her.

“People stories.”

“I don’t —” Michelle starts, but Sherlock shakes his head, bringing a finger up to his lips, and she quiets. He tilts his head to the side, and he frowns, searching her face before he leans over the table and tentatively takes her left hand. He turns it over palm up, little fingers touching her wrist where a tattoo has been inked into her skin in cursive.

“Rachel,” Sherlock says, reading the simple black word written there. “She used to be your daughter. But she died.”

Michelle gasps, her eyes going wide as the colour drains from her face, and John fixes Sherlock with an astonished look.

“How did you know that?” she says, her voice coiling tight and nearly overwrought.

“Her name is there forever so you can look at it when you are sad,” Sherlock says, stroking his finger over the letters. He moves from her wrist over her palm until he reaches her wedding ring and he strokes the metal band. “You are sad a lot.” He looks up at her, narrowing his gaze. “She never got to be a real daughter because she died in your tummy.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Michelle says, tears welling in her eyes as she looks at the little boy before her.

“It’s okay to be sad,” Sherlock says patting her hand, and Michelle nods, a tear escaping from the corner of her eye. “Dr. Mike is sad too, see?” He points to her wedding ring again. “His isn’t shiny either. See? We take care of the things that makes us happy.” She touches the battered band with her thumb, frowning, pain lancing across her face. Sherlock plays with her fingers for a moment before looking back up. “You don’t have to keep it a secret.”

“Keep what a secret?” she says holding his hand, thumb stroking over the back of his.

Slowly, Sherlock reaches up and puts his fingers against her temple, smoothing back some of her hair as he stares at it.

“The hurt in your head,” he sighs sadly. “You can tell Dr. Mike. He’s a doctor and doctors make things better,” Sherlock says, and rubs her head one more time before sitting back down in his seat.

Michelle puts a hand over her mouth, and closes her eyes for a moment to compose herself. Silent tears are running down her face in earnest now, and she brushes them away after a moment before clearing her throat.

“Is – is that what you mean by people stories?” she asks him, her voice a little stronger.

“Yes,” Sherlock says closing his eyes. “I’m the only one who can see them. I can tell when people are lying, and – and what makes them cry.”

“That’s what they would use you for?” Michelle says. A sort of horrified realisation comes over John at this.

Sherlock, eyes still closed, draws his knees up to his chest and nods before dipping his head down into the cover of darkness. “I don’t want any more questions,” comes the muffled response.

“Okay, sweetheart. We’ll take a break,” Michelle says looking for all the world like she needed one too. She swipes at her eyes again, and gets up to get some water, filling one of the paper cups near the sink. John follows her.

“Michelle…” he starts, already at a loss, his mind still reeling from the knowledge Sherlock just imparted. She shakes her head, turning on the sink for her second cup of water. “Why didn’t you tell me you and Mike were having trouble after the baby?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she says, hand shaking as she goes to bring the cup up to her lips. John intercepts her hand, and looks into her face. _Really_ looks.

God he had been so selfish. Here was his oldest friend, pale and wan with dark circles under her eyes, her hair in disarray — _clearly not all right,_ and where the hell was he this past year? Throwing a massive sulk fest for himself. She squeezes her eyes shut and presses her fingers into her temple again, breath hissing though her teeth.

“What’s going on, Michelle?” John says slowly, concern creeping into his voice as he steadies her by the elbow. There was something more to the picture, and John assesses her from head to toe. She didn't look well, and it wasn't just exhaustion or stress.

She lowers her hand, shrugging out of his grasp. She turns away from him, gripping the sink. “Incredible,” she finally murmurs flatly, “he is truly incredible.”

“ _Michelle.,_ ”

“God, John!” she hisses, whipping around to face him again, her voice taking a slightly hysterical edge. “How can he — I’ve not told _anyone!_ No one — no one knows, but he’s right, oh god, he's right!”

“Hey,” John says grounding her with firm hands on her shoulders. “Just calm down and tell me what it is, and then we’ll get it sorted, all right? What are you talking about?”

She brings a shaking hand up to her temple again, and takes a deep breath.

“I went in for a scan a few weeks ago. Headaches, you know?” she says, scoffing bitterly. “Turns out I’ve got an aneurysm up here.”

“Oh my god,” John says, the air whooshing out of him as if punched in the chest. “Is it operable? Can they patch it for you?”

“I don’t know. I – I haven’t made the appointment for the follow up.”

“Why the bloody hell not?” he says, volume rising.

She shrugs listlessly. “I didn’t see the point.”

“Jesus,” John says wiping a hand over his face and turning away from her for a moment. Something else Sherlock said finally clicks, and he closes his eyes. “Mike doesn't know, does he.”

“No. No one does. Shit,” she says, huffing out a breath that is a mixture of a sob and a laugh.

“You need to tell him.”

“Don’t you think I know that?”

“Goddammit, I’m serious, Mich,” John says rounding on her. “You tell him, or I will.”

Michelle purses her lips in contrition. “I was going to,” she says in a small voice. “I will. I promise. I just needed to…to get my head around it.”

John huffs a long breath out of his nose, glaring at her before nodding. “I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. I – I want to be there for you more. For you both. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she says. “Christ. Aren’t we a pair?”

John smiles briefly, and he glances over to where they left Sherlock. Only to find the chair devoid of one little boy.

“Sherlock?” John says, concern creeping into his voice. One of the chairs moves, and a soft thump can be heard. John walks calmly forward, dropping to a crouch so he can peer under the table. Sherlock sits with his knees drawn up, tightly curled in on himself. 

“Sherlock. Hey? I’m sorry – we’re both sorry,” he says when Michelle kneels likewise next to him. After a moment, Sherlock lifts his head to look at them.

“You are a very brave little boy, Sherlock,” Michelle says scooting closer on her knees. “And I am sorry if I frightened you. It must be a lot; seeing all of those stories.”

Sherlock stills, and after a moment nods, his face burying itself against his knees again. “It never stops.”

“I know, sweetheart. Can you come here, please? Can you come out for John?” Michelle says.

The blue eyes peek out from their hiding once more, and John holds out his hand. Sherlock considers it for a second, and slowly unfolds himself. John helps him out and to his feet, steady hands grasping his thin waist.

“Not mad?” Sherlock asks in a whisper.

“Never. Not leaving, remember?” John says tugging lightly at the scarf still draped around Sherlock’s neck.

“Okay,” Sherlock breathes. John smiles, and pulls up one of the chairs, hefting Sherlock into his lap. The little boy instantly snuggles in, seemingly spent, his head resting against John’s chest as he fiddles with his splint. John takes to rubbing his back again, and Sherlock sighs softly.

After a few minutes of simply taking a breather, Michelle pulls up her own chair with a pad of paper and a pen in one hand, and in the other a small little boy doll that for all intents and purposes, John knows to be anatomically correct.

“All right, Sherlock. Just a few more questions,” she says, and Sherlock stiffens. “You don’t have to answer me, you just have to show me with this doll, okay?”

Sherlock takes the doll in his hands and stares down at it. He nods haltingly, looking up at John. John gives him a soft smile, and Sherlock turns back to Michelle.

“You’re doing really well, Sherlock,” Michelle says and smiles at him. She clears her throat. “I want you to show me all the places where somebody hurt you. You only have to point, and I will take care of the rest.”

Sherlock’s hands clutch the doll impossibly tight as he stares down at it, seemingly paralysed. After a moment, John can feel his heart rate accelerating as his breath starts coming in short, little bursts.

“Hey, hey,” John says easing Sherlock’s grip. “You’ll want to be careful with your wrist.”

Sherlock gazes at him with big glassy eyes, and he wiggles his little fingers in the splint. He bites his lip, a mixture of fear and determination on his face before he pushes the doll into John’s hands. Michelle goes to encourage him again, but John stops her, and simply holds the doll in front of him.

After a moment, Sherlock points at the right arm of the doll.

“Good, good,” Michelle says noting it on her pad.

Sherlock reaches out and points at the right leg of the doll, and Michelle writes it down. He snatches his hand back and brings the end of the scarf up to his face. John runs his fingers through his hair in an attempt to soothe him.

“What about before today?” Michelle asks gently.

Sherlock whines a little, but still reaches out, a finger tapping the doll’s stomach. Then, with a bit more courage, he touches the doll’s head, then knee, then face, and finally he grips the doll around the throat and squeezes. John takes a fortifying breath, and grips Sherlock more securely around the waist.

“You’re so brave, Sherlock,” Michelle says, and her eyes flash up to John’s. He swallows hard, knowing what has to come next. “One more question, sweetheart. Did anybody try to hurt you by taking your clothes off?”

“Tried one time,” Sherlock says, voice hitching over the words. “A ma – man. Father got angry and hurt him worser. Nev – er saw him again.”

“But no other times?” Michelle says, making sure.

“I’m not supposed to say any more!” Sherlock says, composure breaking, a few errant tears trickling down his flushed cheeks. He turns in John's lap and pulls at the front of his jumper. “Don’t want any more questions, John. Please!”

John drops the doll on the table, and scoops Sherlock up into a proper embrace, letting him bury his face against his chest. He murmurs soothing nonsense and rocks him gently as great sobs crash over him, coming out in fits and starts as he desperately tries to shutter them away.

“Are we done?” John says, his throat tight and his voice wrought. Michelle levels a look at him, but closes her note pad and gets to her feet.

“Almost,” she says just as Mike enters the room with a paper bag. 

“Ah, poor little fellow,” Mike says sympathetically, and pulls out three kid-sized shirts. “I was just guessing on the fit, but he’s a bit small so hopefully these will work. I didn’t have many options.” He lays them down on the exam table, one by one with corresponding trousers for each.

“Sherlock,” John says gently over his strangled crying. “Let me see you. Let me see those eyes, come on.” Sherlock takes a few heaving breaths, his small frame shaking. It takes a few minutes, and a bit more coaxing from John before he calms down enough to raise his head. “Ah. There you are,” John says wiping his tears. He tugs his chin, giving Sherlock a proud smile. “Let’s go see what Dr. Mike’s got for you, yeah?”

Sherlock nods wiping his nose with the back of his good hand, his chin continuing to tremble. John gets to his feet and carries him over to the exam table and shows Sherlock the clothes. Each shirt is a different colour and has a vibrant, cartoonish design on the front. The blue and green ones each feature either a monster truck or a school of fish, but the red one has a picture of a dinosaur skeleton grinning back at them. It's no surprise which one Sherlock is instantly drawn to.

“T-rex,” he says in a watery voice, pointing down at the red one. “They have bones like us, and people find them by digging.”

“That’s correct. Do you want to wear that one now, or one of your other ones?” John asks glancing up a Michelle as she pulls a digital camera out of her bag. Sherlock looks at him confused for a moment.

“They’re…mine?”

“Yep.”

“For to keep?” Sherlock clarifies, eyes widening.

“Of course,” John says again, and Sherlock looks back at the shirts regarding them seriously as if he were making an extremely vital decision. John wonders if this has been the most he’s ever been able to decide for himself, and the thought makes him sad. Finally, Sherlock does point to the red one, and John nods setting him down on the table. “Do you remember how we took a picture of your arm?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says fingers brushing across the fabric of the red t-shirt almost reverently.

“We need to get a few more pictures of you and then we’ll be all done. Is that okay?” John says. Michelle turns on the camera and stands quietly next to her husband as they look on.

“Why?” Sherlock asks.

“So Michelle can have them so you won’t have to tell anyone else about your hurts,” John says. It's a gamble being so straightforward at this juncture, but John figures directness seems to work best with the little boy who can see everything.

Sherlock nods a little mulling everything over, he looks around, cataloguing the people in the room, blue eyes lighting on John again. “Okay.”

John smiles, relieved, and brushes some hair out of his eyes. “Arms up,” he instructs and pulls the overlarge shirt and the scarf over Sherlock's head. Michelle comes over and tells him to keep his arms out so she could snap photos of his bare chest and bruises, being as quick and efficient as possible. 

John grabs the dinosaur t-shirt, and slips it over that nest of dark curls, laughing when Sherlock's head pops through like a gopher. He tells Sherlock as much, and watches as Sherlock presses his lips together in an attempt to hold back a smile. John laughs again and helps him get his arms through the sleeves, and then instructs him to stand on the table with his hands on the tops of John’s shoulders for balance. As quick as he can, John unfastens the tattered trousers, guiding him to step into a pair of new ones, making a mental note to be sure to get some underwear for him as well. He buttons the denims finally, frowning at the fact that they were still a bit too big on him. Sherlock is much, much too skinny, an up close it is rather worrying.

“I’m going to have to start calling _you_ Bones before too long,” he mutters, eying him once more from top to bottom. Sherlock doesn't say anything, absorbed like he is with running his hands over the front of his shirt in slow repetitive motions, as if something as simple as new clothes was the best present in the world. John quits his scanning, and simply watches him as he sways from side to side, that shy smile finally peeking out in the corners of his lips.

John swallows tightly, and tugs Sherlock gently towards him. He looks at Michelle and goes to ask for her permission, but she cuts him off with an understanding nod. He breathes out a shaky breath, turning back to look into Sherlock’s bright eyes. “Sherlock…how would you like to go home?”

Sherlock blanches, the peace of the moment shattered as terror steals over him. “I — Mister Hope, he — he —”

John curses himself for being an idiot. “No! No, it’s okay! I meant home with — _Sherlock_ look at me — you are never going back there, do you understand?” He grips his thin shoulders in a steady warm pressure, stroking with his thumbs.

“Never?” Sherlock says, face pale and anxiously hopeful.

“As long as I’m alive,” John promises fervently. “Earlier...I meant how would you like to go home with me?” 

Sherlock looks at him searchingly as he processes what John just said. Realisation creeps bit by bit into his expression, and his eyes fill with tears, that smile coming out again. John gives him a quavering smile in return, feeling his own eyes prickle at the corners. Finally Sherlock seems to understand, and his face crumples. He pulls in a sharp half-sob flinging his arms around John’s neck.

“Oh y-yes, please! Please, John,” he says burying his face into John’s neck. “W-want to go home with you, please!”

John’s heart breaks a little, and he cups the back of Sherlock’s head, trying to comfort the poor boy who’s obviously wrung way past his limit. Given the level of emotional upheaval he’s been subjected to in the past few hours, it's no wonder.

“John,” Michelle says softly from behind him, and he turns, Sherlock still in his arms.

“The Inspector from the Met is here. You can’t leave just yet, and I need to talk to them about setting you up for an eight week Interim.”

John huffs in agitation. “Can’t they wait? Hasn’t he been through enough already?”

“It’s out of my hands. He’s a potential witness, John,” Michelle says, her expression conflicted.

“All right, but you tell them I’m going to be there when they talk to him, and not a second before I’ve got him to eat and drink a little something first,” he says firmly.

Michelle nods. “Mike and I will let them know.” They make their way out of the room, closing the door silently behind them.

John sighs, and carries Sherlock over to the chair and sits down with him still clinging tightly to his front.

He turns his head and whispers into his ear, “Everything’s going to be okay, little one. I promise…”

He wills the words to be true, vowing his hardest to protect Sherlock with everything he can from here on out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Edited 24/10/2015


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The enthusiasm I've received from you all has really pushed me to get this newest chapter up. I am really excited about this chapter because it's in Sherlock's POV. I have been writing Sherlock for a while now, but this is the first time I've written through the eyes of a child, and specifically child Sherlock, so I hope you all like it.
> 
> Disclaimer: I've done research on child protective services but it is basic at best as well as my research on police conduct. So...if there are glaring contradiction please forgive them. Cheers!
> 
> xxHoney.

The light above him is buzzing again. 

It sounded like a mosquito, and if he thought about it hard enough, he could almost picture the creature hovering around his ear, tiny wings beating against his eardrum.

Sherlock turns his head and presses his other ear into John’s chest, switching sides so he could give his other one a break. He really wants to cover both ears and close his eyes, but he doesn’t because he wants John to think he’s brave. Sherlock likes the idea of being brave…like a soldier. John was a soldier, and he fought bad men far away and got hurt real bad, but he got better, and now he is going to make Sherlock better, too. Yes, he wanted to be good and brave and strong like John. He takes a big breath, and raises his head.

“All right there, Bones?” John says, tapping the picture of the dinosaur T-rex on his shirt with a smile. Sherlock tries to smile back, but his heart is still heavy and it makes the corners of his mouth feel heavy too, pulling them down towards the floor. He didn’t even know if your heart could do that but that’s what he feels. He wonders if his heart makes a different noise when it’s heavy, and wishes he could listen with Dr. Mike’s stef-o-cope again. He wonders if John’s heart gets heavy like his does, and if the heavy things eventually go away, and when, because sometimes it makes his tummy hurt, and makes him want to cry and he doesn’t like crying because crying is not being very brave at all.

The buzzing starts up again suddenly, and Sherlock winces and covers his ears. It sounds too loud because he keeps forgetting about it and then when he stops thinking about being brave, or the heaviness in his chest he remembers it again. His eyes flicker up to it.

“The light bulb bothering you?” John asks, following his gaze.

“It’s like a mosquito,” Sherlock explains, lowering his hands.

“Hang on a tic,” John says and sets him on the ground. He goes over to the set of switches on the wall and flips one. Half of the light bulbs turn off while the rest stay on, and the buzzing stops. “Better?”

Sherlock nods, sticking a finger into the splint around his arm. It’s itchy, and feels like the buzzing sounds, only against his skin this time instead of his ears. But, his arm really does feel better. John comes over to him and kneels.

“I know I said we were done with questions, but there are going to be a couple of people from the police coming to ask you a few more.”

“The police?” Sherlock says. “Am I in trouble?”

“No, of course not,” John says and frames his waist with his hands pulling Sherlock closer. Sherlock puts his good hand on John’s forearm, completing the circuit. John looks at him seriously. “I want you to know that whatever the case, whatever questions they ask you, I’m going to be right by your side, all right?”

“All right,” Sherlock says quietly. “What if — what if I don’t know the answers?”

“Then that’s just fine. You don’t need to know all the answers,” John assures.

Sherlock frowns. That was the second time someone told him he _wouldn’t_ get in trouble for Not Knowing. It didn’t make sense. That’s what he was there for, was to _see._ There was always things to see, things to Know. Everybody had Stories like chapters in a book and he was the only one who could read them because he was special. He didn’t feel like he was special, though. Especially when he used Knowing to hurt people. He felt terrible then, like a small bug that deserved to be crushed. His stomach clenches uncomfortably, and he bites his lip as he pictures himself shrinking down farther and farther until he was the size of an ant.

“Sherlock,” John says gently, and Sherlock blinks up at him, trying to keep the tears away.

“I’ll be brave, John. W-want to be brave,” Sherlock says. John smiles at him again, and Sherlock feels a little better.

“Come here,” he says and Sherlock goes willingly into his embrace. He likes the way John smells: like warm things, good things, clean and a little bit like scones and lemon. He likes the feeling of John’s jumper — a little scratchy — under his cheek, and his warm arms around him. And when John talks, he can feel his voice rumble in his chest and it reminds him of the thunder when it rains early in the mornings before everyone is awake and the light outside is soft. 

“You are already the bravest person I know,” John says.

“Really?” he whispers, and John cards his fingers through the hair on his head. It feels nice.

“ _Really,_ really.”

“Knock, knock,” Michelle says coming into the room with a little white box. John stands and pulls Sherlock against him, a hand on his head maintaining contact. Sherlock wraps his arm around his leg as he looks up at her shyly, and she smiles at him. She smiles a lot, but her smiles don’t really smile. They are sad smiles, and Sherlock made her cry, and all at once he feels like a bug again. He presses his face into John’s thigh.

“Oh, Michelle. Good,” John says taking the box from her. He pops open the lid.

“I just got what ever was in the canteen,” Michelle says. “Hope that’s all right?”

“No, it’s perfect. Come here, Sherlock,” John says leading him back to the shiny red table. Sherlock sits in one of the wooden chairs that’s meant to look like a fire man, and watches as John takes out a sandwich, an apple, and a carton of milk out of the box and proceeds to set everything in front of him. Sherlock’s guts squirm as he looks down at the food and back up to John.

John regards him, and after a moment unwraps the sandwich from its plastic. “It’s a turkey sandwich,” John says taking a seat in the bigger chair next to him. He takes a bite, and hums a little, holding it back out to Sherlock. He takes it tentatively. “See? Not poison,” John jokes.

Sherlock stares down at the sandwich, his palms going sweaty and making his splint itch even more. John says it’s not poison. It’s not, and Sherlock trusts John.

_We’re going to play a little game, Sherlock. It’s called chess…_

He looks back up at John, his heart beating fast as the memory swims to the surface. But he’s not paying attention, he’s talking to Michelle, and they are busy looking at some papers she has in her hands, completely unaware that Sherlock is falling.

 _There’s only one move._

Sherlock blinks, trying to clear the twisted cruel face of Mister Hope from his head.

_Did I give you your medicine? Or did I give you the poison? Come Sherlock, you have to pick one. A growing boy needs his medicine._

It’s _not_ poison. It’s not, it’s not, it’s not.

_Did I give you the good pill or the bad pill? — No don’t look away, you little shit, how are you ever going to learn anything —?_

“Sherlock,” John’s voice interrupts his bad thoughts, making him jump. “It’s okay, you can eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” he says even though his stomach cramps painfully. John looks at him carefully, and then back to the sandwich in his hands.

“You need to eat, Bones,” John says, opening the carton of milk and setting it down in front of him again. Sherlock looks down at the sandwich and not wanting to disappoint John, takes an enormous bite. The textures in his mouth clash, the slippery meat and the greasy cheese making his stomach flip, but he swallows it down. He takes a shaky breath, and goes to take another bite, but John stops him. “Sherlock?”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says. He feels ashamed when he feels the dampness on his cheeks from his tears.

“Can you tell us what’s wrong, sweetheart?” Michelle asks taking the now-mangled sandwich from his hands. Sherlock looks at her, unable to meet John’s gaze.

He opens and closes his mouth a few times before figuring out how to answer. “Taste. It’s too many – too many flavours.” He wrinkles his nose. He didn’t know how else to say it.

Michelle looks puzzled, but John makes a noise of understanding. “I think I know…” John says taking the sandwich and disassembling it into separate components. To Michelle he says, “I think he’s easily overwhelmed with too much stimuli.” He hands Sherlock a piece of bread. “Try this, and if you feel better maybe you can move on to the tomato?”

Sherlock takes the bread and nibbles on the corner. It’s got bits in the crust, oats he realises, and he finds that he likes it and it stops the aching hollow feeling in his tummy. He takes a bigger bite, and John smiles proudly at him before turning back to Michelle.

“We’re doing things a bit out of order, pushing the bureaucratic circus to move as fast as they can. Sergeant Donovan assured me they have already filed the emergency protection order for him, and I’ve talked with my boss and we were able to forego the headache of an official referral, given the circumstances. He agrees with me that you’re the best candidate for Interim, being a doctor with a steady income like you are. The conference will take place later instead of before, and my guess is that’s also where they will want to draw up a plan for his permanent Care Order.”

“All right,” John says rubbing the back of his neck.

“It sounds like a lot to contend with when put that way, but all you’ve got to do is keep doing what you’re doing.” Sherlock watches as Michelle reaches out and puts her hand on John’s arm. John breathes out a big breath. “John. There’s still time to — I mean, if you aren’t —”

“No,” John says cutting her off swiftly. “If you are about to ask me if I’m sure, I’m telling you right now I’ve never been more certain in my life.”

“Okay. I’m not doubting, I’m just doing my job,” Michelle says and removes her hand. Sherlock wonders why she looks at John the way she does — like sad and happy and guilty all at the same time — until he remembers her dirty wedding ring and the fact that her smiles aren’t really smiles. He looks down, not wanting to read her Story anymore, and tries to eat as much as he can of the other slice of bread even though his tummy is feeling swimmy again. He manages two more bites before his eyes blur, and he suddenly feels really tired.

He pulls his legs up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, resting his cheek against the tops of his knees. He closes his eyes as he listens to Michelle and John talk back and forth, his body feeling heavy, but not wanting to go all the way asleep.

He doesn’t know how much time passes, but the next thing he’s aware of is John’s hand is in his hair again, and he is murmuring something softly to him. He can’t make his eyes open all the way, but he tries to keep them from closing as hard as possible because John is smiling at him like he is the best thing ever.

“Sherlock,” John says quietly, hand coming to rest on the back of his neck, thumb stroking a little pattern. Sherlock’s eyes slip closed again. “Michelle, is there really no other way for them to postpone this ordeal? He’s hardly eaten and is clearly exhausted.”

“The issue is time-sensitive, John.”

“The bloke’s not going anywhere, right? What’s the rush?” John says, and rouses Sherlock again.

Sherlock blinks up at him sleepily, but raises his arms to be picked up. John lifts him, and he curls into John’s broad chest the moment he is gathered in his arms. His tummy suddenly gurgles and gives another lurch, and he whimpers quietly, trying not to make any noise and turning his face away from the lights.

“It’s out of my hands. They won’t tell me any more,” Michelle says. She rubs Sherlock’s back, and he peeks out at her. She holds out Geoffrey to him with a sad smile, and Sherlock takes him and cuddles him close brushing one of his antennas against his lips.

“Bastards,” John says deep in his chest, and Sherlock thinks of thunder again, only this time it is like night-time thunder with flashes of lightening, powerful and scary. Sherlock is oddly comforted by it.

_“John.”_

“Well they are.”

“Language. You have to think about these things now,” Michelle frets. “Mike’s gone ahead and set them up in his private office for you.”

“Fine. The quicker we get this over with, the quicker I can get Sherlock home,” John says and follows Michelle out of the exam room.

Sherlock perks up a little on the way to Dr. Mike’s office at hearing this. He likes the sound of that just as much as John does. Going home. Home with John. Never back to Mister Hope ever, ever again _ever._ He sighs, kissing the top of Geoffrey’s head trying not to let John’s swaying steps make him sleepy again as they walk down the corridor.

“I’ll be out here when you’re finished,” Michelle says before they enter the room. Sherlock feels John nod, and he hugs Geoffrey even closer. The door opens and he squeezes his eyes tightly shut.

“Hello, there,” a gruff, stern voice says, and Sherlock holds his breath. “I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade, and this is my Sergeant, Sally Donovan. You must be Dr. Watson.”

“I don’t care if you’re the Queen at this point, mate,” John says tersely, but shakes hands with the man anyway.

“I understand you’re the lad’s guardian for now?” the voice belonging to Lestrade says, and Sherlock turns his face into the base of John’s throat.

“That’s right.” John cups the back of his head, and Sherlock feels a bit more secure and like he can breathe again. He lets out a few gusty breaths and tells himself that when...he opens his eyes he absolutely will not cry.

“That’s all well and good, but surely you won’t mind if we hand Sherlock over to an officially appointed Children’s Guardian when it comes to matters of our investigation?”

Breathing becomes difficult again when Sherlock hears this, but John says, “I _absolutely_ mind. He is scared and unwell, and given the fact that you simply cannot postpone traumatising him even more, I should think you could spare him having to be handled by another stranger.”

“Ah, well Michelle said you’d say that,” Lestrade says a bit more gently. “But I do have someone who should be here shortly, and I am assuming I won’t have to make you sign a gag order or anything like that. This is an extremely sensitive case you are now going to be privy to.”

“All I care about is right here, Inspector,” John says and hitches Sherlock a bit higher.

“I understand, and call me Greg. Thanks for being so agreeable. I wouldn’t do this if it weren’t necessary,” he says. The sound of the door opening again startles Sherlock, but despite his fear, his curiosity causes him to peek out to the side. “Ah, there she is. John this is Miss Hooper: _guardian ad litem._ She’s worked in relation with the Met before, and she’s the best I know.”

“Nice to meet you, Miss Hooper.”

“Molly, please,” she says politely, and she shakes John’s hand also. Her jumper is very colourful and has the picture of a dog on it. A _dach_ -shund. Sherlock knows this because from his old room at Mister Hope’s house he would watch the woman with the short blonde hair walk her dog every morning and her dog looked like that. Molly catches him peering at her, and she waves at him by crooking her index finger a few times. He hesitates for a moment but does the same, and she smiles. 

Sherlock decides he likes her smiles more than Michelle’s because they are honest like John’s. He can tell by her Story that she is sad too, but when she smiles at him she means it.

“You must be Sherlock,” she says to him, and Sherlock nods. “It’s all a bit scary, isn’t it? All these new people.”

“I’m trying to be brave,” Sherlock tells her, and she smiles with her lips, and Sherlock likes this smile, too, because it’s like a secret smile just for him.

“I can tell. You are doing a very, very good job,” she whispers, and he tries to smile back at her when she touches the tip of his nose with one finger. He finally has the courage to come out from under John's chin at this point, and he looks around the new room they are in. There’s not much to notice about this room but there is a window, and Sherlock can see that they are high up, higher than Mister Hope’s house, and it is fascinating.

“Right, well now that everyone’s here, don’t you think we should get started, Inspector?” 

Sherlock turns at the sound of the new voice and sees that it belongs to another woman with curly black hair and dark skin. She’s standing next to the police man named Greg, and Sherlock remembers that her name is Sally. 

She’s not smiling when her gaze snaps to his. In fact her face is doing the opposite and Sherlock can tell she’s upset by something. Someone, if he looks closer. Someone said a mean thing to her before she got here, and she doesn’t want to stand next to Greg anymore. Sherlock can tell because she called him by his important name and not by Greg like he asked John to, and when she did Greg looked surprised and a little hurt.

Sherlock feels a little woozy after the Knowing rushes to a stop, and he falls backwards suddenly, good hand shooting out to grab a fistful of John’s jumper at the abrupt loss in balance.

“Hey? All right?” John murmurs as he draws him back against his chest for a moment before looking down into his face with a worried frown. Sherlock’s head is swimming, and his tummy is writhing again, but he nods to show that he’s strong and not scared.

“Yeah, okay let’s go ahead now,” Lestrade says motioning for them to sit around a small folding table that’s been provided for them.

John takes a chair, and adjusts them so Sherlock is sitting comfortably in his lap as Lestrade and Sally sit across from him, and Molly hangs back pulling out a notebook.

“I will be recording this for posterity, just so you know.” Lestrade says more for John’s benefit than anything else. John nods, and tightens his arm around Sherlock’s waist in a way that is comforting. A small device is pulled out of Sally’s brief case, tested a few times, and then set in the centre of the table. “Will everybody present please go about the room and state their names for the record?”

“Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan.”

“Madeline Hooper.”

“Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade,” the DI says and nods in John’s direction.

“Doctor John Watson, and Sherlock.”

“Very good,” Lestrade says leaning forward and taking out a pen and paper. “So Sherlock…I’m going to ask you a few questions and you just do the best you can and answer as best as you know how, okay?”

Sherlock glances up at John, and John nods encouragingly at him. He looks back to Greg Lestrade and takes a big breath.

“Okay.”

“There’s a lad,” Lestrade says and smiles kindly at him. Sherlock can tell there is something off about his smiles too, but it’s not dishonest, just tired. “Now can you tell me, do you know who Mr. Hope is?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says biting his lip for a moment to keep it from trembling. “I live with him.”

“How long have you lived with him?”

“A long, long time. Almost forever,” Sherlock says in a hushed voice. He has to remember that he never has to go back there to keep his breathing steady. Lestrade nods solemnly.

“Do you remember who you lived with before you came to live with Mr. Hope?”

Sherlock tries to concentrate. “It was a big, big house,” he starts, a memory of him sitting on a plush rug and looking up at the many stairs above him. There was a nice woman who spoke a different language — _Mon petit cheri_ — that came and picked him up and carried him to the gardens. He got stung by a bee that day, and when he cried and tugged on his Father's trousers he was smacked across the face and told to be quiet because — _“Daddy’s working, Sherlock. Stop being a nuisance or I will give you something to cry about.”_

“Who’s house was it?” Lestrade prods gently, and Sherlock snaps out of the memory.

“My – my Father’s house,” Sherlock says tears threatening him again, but he hugs Geoffrey closer and feels a little braver. “We didn’t stay there long because Father needed to hide and that’s why I went with Mister Hope.”

“Do you know your father’s name?”

Sherlock mentally flinches away from the question.

“I don’t — I don’t —”

“It’s okay, sport,” Lestrade says giving him another kind smile, and John rubs his back. “Did you ever have a Mummy, Sherlock?”

“A Mummy?” Sherlock says. He remembers reading about nice ladies who love their little boys and sing them songs before bed and give them kisses. He never had anyone sing him songs before bed, or read him stories, or give him warm milk and honey if he was scared. He made the mistake of asking Mister Hope one time why he didn’t have one, and all he got was a cuff around the ear. — _Because who would want a useless little thing like you? Now stop asking stupid questions_ — 

“No. I don’t have a Mummy.” He wipes the back of his good hand against his cheek, not noticing that it was wet.

“Sherlock…do you know that Mr. Hope is a bad man?” Lestrade asks softly.

“Oh yes,” Sherlock says nodding slowly. “He is a very bad man. I don’t like him.”

“Do you know that Mr. Hope has hurt people?”

“I —” Sherlock slams his eyes shut. “Yes.”

“Did he ever hurt them in front of you?” Lestrade presses.

_Keep your eyes open you little bastard!_

Sherlock’s eyes fly open as the bad thoughts come in like a flood. “I —”

_This is what dying looks like. See? You best remember that if I ever catch you talking to anyone ever again, is that clear?_

“Sherlock?” the DI says.

“I’m not su – supposed to s-say!” he says, icy fear locking him in place. John’s hands rub up and down his arms as he shivers, but Sherlock can hardly feel it.

“Listen to me,” Sally Donovon says, her sharp voice ringing through the air, startling him. “He can’t hurt you. He’s locked up and is staying there for a very long time. Understand?”

A sob escapes him, and he feels like a failure, but he nods anyway, no longer frozen in place by the memories.

Molly comes over to crouch beside him and she cups his cheek. “It’s all right, Sherlock. You are absolutely safe. No one is going to hurt you. Tell us?” 

Sherlock looks back at the police man with the kind face and sucks in a stuttering gasp. “I hurt them too!” he nearly wails. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to! I — he said he would hurt me if I didn’t do the Stories and I didn’t want to end up like the people who didn’t take their good medicine!”

“What medicine?” Lestrade says intently, brows coming together.

“Two pills. A good medicine and a bad medicine. He would have me choose sometimes when I was bad like it was a game. I had to pick the good medicine because the bad one was _bad._ He made me do it when I wouldn’t do the Stories the first time,” Sherlock says, the words rushing out of his mouth and making him feel sick. John behind him gasps in horror, and Sherlock _wishes_ he was a bug now because he deserved to be squashed for being so scared and weak.

“What are ‘stories’, Sherlock?” Lestrade says.

“It’s what I see when I look at people,” he says not able to stop the words from coming anymore. He shudders as the information bombards him. “You are married but you left your ring off because you are mad at her because she did a mean thing to you, and Sally is sad too because someone said a mean thing to her and now she won’t look at you or call you Greg like you are friends anymore. But Sally is only pretending to be mad at you because she likes you the way girls and boys like each other but she isn’t your wife and sometimes you don’t want your wife to be your wife anymore because you like somebody else but you feel guilty and — and —”

It was all there swirling in front of him like water colours, making his head hurt and it just kept coming, and endless torrent of Knowing. He felt like he was underwater, and he couldn’t get any air.

“Sherlock? Sherlock!” John’s voice comes to him sounding far away, and Sherlock can’t make himself stop shaking. He’s dimly aware of being turned around in John’s lap and he weakly wraps his good arm tight around his neck. “You need to breathe for me, all right? Deep breaths, give it a try, love.”

Finally, a creaking gasp breaks past his lips, and he still can’t keep the words in because he had to tell John that he didn’t mean to, he had to make him understand so he wouldn’t want to send him back.

“He – he ma-made me read them, John! He made me see what made them sad and angry and h-ow to make them do what Mister Hope said and so I told him because I didn’t want to take the bad medicine because I was afraid, and I am sor-sorry, please! Please don’t send me away, I d-didn’t mean to!” Sherlock says giving himself over to the fear at being abandoned because how could John possibly want him now?

“Turn that bloody thing off!” John nearly shouts. Lestrade snatches the recording device, and jabs the stop button.

“Christ!” Lestrade says staring slack-jawed at Sally, who averts her gaze, and adjusts her collar.

“Sherlock look at me, look at me,” John says easing Sherlock back, brushing his hair away from his eyes. “Slow down, you’re going to make yourself sick. That’s it, deep breaths. I am _not_ sending you away, how could you even think that?”

“N-not very br-ave,” Sherlock says through hitching sobs. “My – my fa-fault.”

John closes his eyes at this, and when he opens them again they sparkle with his own tears. “Oh, _Sherlock,”_ he says and kisses him on the forehead, holding him against his lips for a moment to compose himself before kissing him again. “You are so, so brave, and don’t you think for one second any of that was your fault. All right?”

Sherlock, completely overwhelmed and not really understanding, nods regardless and continues to cry doing his best not to make noise. It's not working, so he crams his fist in his mouth and tries to breathe through his nose.

Lestrade clears his throat. “I, erm, I still need to —”

“No, you don’t,” John bites out and gets to his feet, cradling Sherlock protectively against him. “You’re done.”

“I understand he’s upset but I need to get him to make a positive ID —”

”You’ve bloody done enough. I’m taking him home,” John growls, making for the door.

“Dr. Watson,” Donovan starts, but it’s Molly’s hand on his arm that gets him to stop.

“I know it’s been hard on him,” she says, and John scoffs. She presses on, “but the police need something concrete to prevent Hope from making bail. And Sherlock is the only one who can give them that.”

John huffs an impatient breath, arms tightening slightly around Sherlock. Sherlock shivers, and tries to burrow deeper into John’s jumper.

“One positive ID, and our case goes from circumstantial to having a witness that places him at the scene. It’s all we need to hold the bastard,” Lestrade says.

“Damn it,” John mutters, then: “Sherlock. Inspector Lestrade needs to ask you one more thing. Can you be brave one more time for me?”

Sherlock, feeling strange and float-y manages to sit up a little. He wipes his nose on the back of his hand and looks at Lestrade, too exhausted to stop the tears from trickling down his cheeks. He sucks in a big breath. “Okay.”

Lestrade gives him a weary smile, and gathers up his bumblebee up from where it fell on the floor. Sergeant Donovan follows him with a folder of some sort.

“Here you go, sport,” Lestrade says, and Sherlock takes the bee, pressing it to his face. He just wanted to hide some place and never come out. “I know you’re tired and you’ve been so helpful. Because of you, Mr. Hope will never be able to hurt people again.”

“He w-won’t?” Sherlock says.

“Nope. All you have to do is look at the photos that Sally has and point to the people you recognise. Do you think you can do that?”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispers.

Sally comes over and shows him a picture with a whole bunch of faces on it. After a moment, he scrubs his eyes and points to a picture of a lady with too much jewelry, a boy older than him, a woman in a lot of pink clothes, and the most recent, a man with silver hair. His hand trembles when he points to the last one, and Sally whisks the folder away.

“You got what you came for, then?” John says folding Sherlock back into the shelter of his embrace. Sherlock can do little else but cling to him, snuffling miserably. His heart is beating fast and slow at the same time, and he closes his eyes.

“Yeah, we’re done here,” Lestrade says. “Dr. Watson. I appreciate your time. Your little boy there, he’s helped put a murderer behind bars.”

“Yeah well…” John trails off. “He’s really something.”

“That he is. Molly and I will be in touch. Now go ahead and get him home. Best of luck to the both of you,” he says shaking John’s hand one more time.

“Home?” Sherlock says lifting his heavy head so he could look at John.

“You bet,” John says, and Sherlock puts his head back down against his shoulder. He sighs when John kisses his curls.

Sherlock is vaguely aware that John is talking again, but he can’t concentrate on what he’s saying, his head going foggy. He feels something warm being draped over him, and it smells like those good things again and safety, and he sinks into the rocking sway of John’s footsteps. 

He rises to the surface one last time to hear John tell a taxi driver,

“221 Baker Street, please,”

and then he tumbles down into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Edited 26/10/2015


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry its been a bit on this. I have the plague. I hope you all enjoy, and the feedback I've received on this is amazing. It has quickly become dear to my heart and I am so glad to share it with all of you.  
> xxHoney.

John adjusts his jacket more securely around the sleeping boy in his arms, tucking it under his chin and brushing the hair back from his eyes. Even in sleep, Sherlock’s face looks pinched and grey with distress, and John presses the back of his hand against his forehead. He frowns when he notices he has a slight temperature. He was going to have to start him on his antibiotics regimen first thing tomorrow — with some proper food for a change. 

Oh. That’s right. He needed to go shopping as well. A carton of milk, toast, and a box of Wheetabix isn't going to cut it for a growing boy. What did Sherlock even _like_ to eat anyway? John knew he was rather particular, so he imagined it was going to be a lot of trial and error, getting as much nutrients into him without overwhelming him with too many flavours or options.

Christ. They aren't even home yet, and John is already half through making a list of potential food items and other supplies he would need to pick up tomorrow -- food he would never buy for himself like frozen chicken nuggets in the shape of dinosaurs, and PaediaSure nutrition shakes.

All at once, John realises how sideways his life has turned in just a few short hours. When he left that morning, he was just John Watson, former Army Doctor, bitter and estranged from society, dog lover. And now he is John Watson, still a former Army Doctor and whatnot, except…now he is John Watson with a … child. The magnitude of this is overwhelming, and apparently, just now sinking in. Jesus, he was out of his depth. Who’s idea was it that he would actually be good at taking care of a human child?

Panicked, he looks down at the sleeping bundle in his arms.

Sherlock snuffles lightly, and his tiny fist curls even tighter from earlier where he had latched onto the front of John’s jumper and never let go. His injured wrist is nestled protectively between his little body and John’s chest, and he rubs his cheek against the wooly fabric of the cable-knit where he is securely tucked. He almost coos in his sleep, a contented sigh of a sound, and John’s heart aches with an overwhelming tenderness that causes his breath to catch.

Yes. His life had been tossed into the wind, arse-over-end as it were. But now, now there is reason and purpose again, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

The ferocity of his affection for Sherlock hits him like a freight train, the likes of which he's never felt before. The fear and doubt is still there lurking on the edges of his mind, of course, but it is muted by the sheer potency of what he feels for this extraordinary little boy. Until this moment, John would have said that love was no mystery to him. But now he knows how short-sighted of him he was to think there is only one way to feel. This love is different from what he had experienced prior, and it was all encompassing, rare, and completely _irrevocable._

And what’s more: of all the things that could have happened differently for the both of them, out of all they've been through, Sherlock actually _chose him_ right back in the end. The thought alone renders John down to his marrow, and he can't help but feel honoured.

“John?” Sherlock mumbles sleepily, his eyes heavy-lidded, but open and searching.

“Hey there, Bones,” John says, voice coarse with emotion. He tries to clear it.

“Why are you sad?” Sherlock asks, and wipes a tear from John's cheek that he didn't realise was there.

“No, no I’m not sad,” he says, caressing Sherlock's brow with his thumb. “We’re almost home. Get some more shuteye.”

Sherlock nods, his eyes growing heavy and fluttering closed almost instantly.

John takes a deep breath and looks out the window, hardly noticing the blur of city lights flying past. London looks the same, but everything, _everything_ is different. _He_ was different, and he didn’t really know what all of that entailed at the moment, but for the first time in a long while, he feels completely content.

“Baker Street, sir,” the cabbie informs him, breaking John's winding train of thought. 

“Oh, right. Thanks, mate,” John says, handing him the fare from the back seat. He then loops the strap of his med bag across his chest in order to have his arms free for Sherlock. It doesn't require too much manoeuvring, partly due to the fact that Sherlock barely weighed anything to begin with, however John realises his dilemma when he approaches the door and has no way of getting to the keys in his pocket. 

He looks at the buzzers next to the door, debating whether to disturb his landlady or not. It is only nine in the evening, and he knows the chances of her being up still were probably good. He hadn’t known her for very long, but she was a bit barmy and kept odd hours. He presses the button for 221A and waits.

The door unlocks, and Mrs. Hudson peeks out with a bright smile, a kettle still in her hand having obviously been in the middle of her evening cuppa.

“John, dear what —? Oh my!” Mrs. Hudson says, dropping her voice to a startled whisper when she sees the sleeping boy nestled in John’s arms.

“Sorry to disturb you, but as you can see, my hands are full and I didn’t want to wake him,” John says softly.

“No, you didn’t disturb me, of course not, come get him in out of the cold, the poor dear,” Mrs. Hudson babbles, swinging the door open wide. “I’ll get your door too, shall I?”

“That would be great, ta,” John says, and she pulls her spare set of keys out of the decorative tea pot sitting on the hallway sideboard. He follows her down the hall to 221’s basement flat: Apartment C.

He walks down the few steps into the spartan sitting room before dropping his med bag next to the small sofa. Mrs. Hudson, who is nosy by nature, follows him in of course, and instantly swoops down to pick it up so she could hang it on the designated peg by the door.

“I’ll just go and put him down,” John says, and makes his way back to the one and only bedroom. 

The flat is matchbox small, so John uses the light pouring in from the main room to guide him as he gingerly lays Sherlock down on his bed. He grabs the quilt folded neatly at the foot, and tucks him in, making sure to keep the damp draught out as much as possible. Sherlock fusses for a moment, but calms when John threads his fingers through his hair, soothed back under by John's careful attention. He curls on his side, blanket tight under his chin, and sighs gustily through his mouth.

John kisses the tips of his fingers, and presses them to Sherlock's forehead before he makes his way back to the sitting room.

“Cup of tea for you, dear,” Mrs. Hudson says handing him a mug of steaming black tea. “No sugar, right?”

“Er, yes thank you,” John says taking too big of a swallow, burning the top of his mouth. It's good though, just what he needs.

“Just this once, mind. I’m your landlady, not your housekeeper,” she says, and sets about straightening the stack of mail on his small dining table. “So, who is the little love?”

“He’s…” John falters. _Oh. What was Sherlock to him now?_ “He’s my…Sherlock,” John finishes unevenly.

“Where did he come from?” Mrs. Hudson says, and John pulls out one of the chairs for her to sit so she can enjoy her own tea. He sits across from her.

“He was in a bad way, Mrs. Hudson,” John begins, rubbing the rim of his mug. “I had a house call. I hardly get those. I nearly begged off, but in the end I went, and God — when I got there he was all alone and. The bastard he was living with broke his arm. He was so terrified and I – I had to get him out of there…” He drops off here, not wanting to think what could have happened if no one came for him. It probably would have been days before someone, if anyone, noticed. Sherlock is resourceful, given he found a way to contact a doctor by himself, and with how clever he is, chances are he would have set out on his own before long. And then where would he be? John shudders to think of him wandering the streets of London scared and alone.

“Oh my heavens,” Mrs. Hudson gasps, eyes growing wide. “To do that to a _child.”_ She puts a hand over her mouth and tries to blink away her sudden tears. “You were right to get him out.”

“Yeah,” John says, the exhaustion suddenly taking its toll. He releases a laden breath. “They _used_ him — his gifts, his incredible gifts — for awful, _awful_ things. That’s what I can’t get past, Mrs. Hudson. The things they made him _do.”_ His voice cracks, and he brings a shaking hand up to scrub his eyes.

“What did they do, John?” she says, her tone laced with growing dread.

“Sherlock…” John starts, mouth dry. “I’ve never met anyone like him. He’s a prodigy; and honest-to-god genius. He’s only about five, but he is so smart. Scary smart. He could probably tell you all of the bones in the human body if you ask him. But it’s more than just book smarts. He can read _people._ He calls it reading their ‘stories’.”

“Their stories?” Mrs. Hudson queries.

“Within a matter of minutes, Sherlock was able to look at me and deduce practically everything about me. He knew about the gunshot wound in my shoulder because of how I held him, and that I had been abroad because of my face and hands. And it wasn’t just a one off either. He knew things, personal things, about my friend Michelle. He saw the tattoo on her wrist and was able to tell that it was the name of her stillborn daughter.”

“Oh my goodness,” Mrs. Hudson says, pressing her hand over her heart. “How can one little boy know all that?”

“If I hadn’t witnessed it for myself, I wouldn’t believe it,” John says shaking his head. “The people he was with…they used his talents for their own purposes. They forced him to find leverage over certain people, and in the end killed them. Who knows what all he’s seen or been subjected to?” 

As if on cue, a sharp cry of distress rings out from the bedroom, startling the both of them. John surges to his feet, and hurries towards the hall.

“Sherlock?” he calls out as the sound of sobbing reaches him, pushing open the door to the bedroom. The first thing he’s aware of is the sour smell of sick, and concerned, he rushes to the dressing table to turn on the light.

Sherlock sits trembling on the side of the bed, feet still in their trainers dangling several inches from the floor. His eyes are closed, and his face is scrunched up in a silent wail. The front of his shirt is soiled, as well as the small rug by the bed. He defaults to his familiar pose, splinted arm tucked tight against him as he attempts to catch his breath.

“It’s all right,” John says, stepping over the meager pool of sick, kneeling down in front of him. John puts a hand to his forehead even though it is already evident he has a raging fever due to the bright patches of scarlet on his cheeks.

“M’sorry,” Sherlock says, his voice thin and watery, teeth chattering as he sits there partially damp with sweat and vomit. “I didn’t mean to, John, I promise.”

“No, of course you didn’t. Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?” John says. Sherlock nods, and lifts his arms so John could take off his soiled shirt. When that’s off, John balls it up along with the rug and throws them both in the clothes bin to be washed later. Next, he grabs an old t-shirt from the top of his wardrobe. It’s the softest he owns, an old RAMC shirt that is well worn and a bit on the bigger side from when he had the muscle mass. It would work for now until John can get him some real pyjamas. “Arms up, again.”

Sherlock does as he’s told, eyes glassy as he struggles to keep them open due to exhaustion. John slips on the shirt, and manoeuvres him like a rag doll so he can get his trousers and shoes off as well. The shirt is big to the point he is practically swimming in it, and John can’t help but worry yet again over how underweight Sherlock is. He frowns and picks him up, just holding him close for a moment in attempts to soothe as he rocks from side to side rubbing circles into his back. “There. That’s better, isn’t it?” he murmurs, continuing to sway from hip to hip.

“Mmhm,” Sherlock says into his collar, his heaving breaths beginning to smooth out. John hitches him a little higher and makes his way back out into the kitchen.

“Oh, the little love,” Mrs. Hudson frets. She comes over and brushes a hand through Sherlock’s sweaty hair. He peers at her from the familiar shelter under John’s chin, sniffling lightly.

“I should really give him a dose now,” John says, one hand shaking out Sherlock’s medication from the paper bag on the table. He reads the instructions for the antibiotic and fever reducer. “Mrs. Hudson, could you make up a slice of dry toast?”

“Of course, dear. Something easy on the tum,” she says and bustles about locating the bread.

John carries Sherlock to the small pull-out sofa in the sitting room, and carefully deposits him on the cushions. Even though the couch isn’t big, he looks so small and fragile, positively swallowed up against the pillows in his gown of a night shirt. John grabs the folded afghan off the back and drapes it around his shoulders, wanting to protect him from absolutely everything in that second, not just the cold. 

Once he’s cocooned securely in the blanket, Sherlock immediately nuzzles his face into the fleece material, a repetitive brush/slide over his lips that John watches curiously for a moment. Sherlock is extremely sensory, and seems to find comfort in tactile sensations the most. John remembers his fuzzy bumble bee and casts about for it. He finds it on the floor next to the coffee table, and tucks it snugly into the cradle of Sherlock’s arms. The little boy kisses the bee on the head, and continues to absently brush his lips against the blanket with a sleepy coo.

It is, frankly, the most endearing thing John Watson — former Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers; crack shot; hardened war veteran of Kandahar — has ever seen. His heart melts a little, and he dips his head to press a kiss into those riotous curls before setting off to hunt down a clean flannel and the digital thermometer he keeps in the bathroom.

When he comes back out, he pauses just on the threshold of the sitting room.

Mrs. Hudson is sitting on the sofa talking to Sherlock. From his position, John can’t really make out the words, but he watches as she continues to stroke his hair, murmuring in low tones. She stills as Sherlock asks her something, and then dips her head so he can whisper into her ear. Mrs. Hudson’s gentle expression fades into one of shock, and she looks at him with eyes rapidly filling with tears.

“How…?” she manages just as John enters more fully into the sitting room, prepared to do damage control. She looks at him, fingers pressed to her lips, and gets to her feet.

“Mrs. Hudson?” John says. He looks at Sherlock who is looking at her solemnly. “Are you all right?”

“What?” she says snapping out of her reverie. She brushes a tear off her cheek, and tries to give him a warm smile. “Fine, dear. I’m just going to, um —” she says flustered, cutting herself off with a gesture towards the door.

“Okay,” John says, concerned. She nods and smoothes down her skirt before hurrying out of the flat without another glance. 

John is left on uneven footing as he wonders what just happened. He looks back down at Sherlock where he sighs and nibbles the corner of the toast Mrs. Hudson made for him. He wants to ask what Sherlock said to her, but given her reaction, it was probably intensely personal so he refrains, and instead sits down on the sofa. 

“How’s your tummy, kiddo?” John asks. He cups Sherlock's chin with one hand, and gently wipes his face with the damp flannel.

“It’s okay,” Sherlock says, putting the toast down on the plate in front of him. “Missus Hus-don is nice.”

“Yeah, she is,” John says. He folds the lukewarm cloth and places it on the back of Sherlock's neck. “Tongue up. I need to take your temperature.”

Sherlock complies, letting John hold the digital thermometer until it beeps. John frowns when he reads the numbers on the little screen. _37.9_

“Not good?” Sherlock whispers.

“Bit not good, yeah,” John says tugging his chin affectionately, and removing the cloth. It wouldn’t do to give him a chill with that high of a fever. “But that’s okay. I’ll right you up.” He retrieves the meds from the kitchen and a glass of water, and returns to Sherlock’s side. He twists off the cap and fills the eye dropper with the correct dose.

“Is that medicine?” Sherlock asks, his brow fretting.

“Yep. It’s to help you,” John says holding his hand under the dropper to keep from getting any on the couch. Sherlock doesn’t look convinced, so John puts the dropper back and twists the bottle closed. He shows them both to Sherlock. “See? This one is to help with your leg. And the other one is to help with your arm and your fever. It will make you feel a lot better even though you don’t right now.”

Sherlock looks at one of the bottles in his hand. He brings it up to his ear and shakes it a little, and then squeezes the rubber top of the dropper, listening to the bubbles gurgle inside.

“No pills?” he asks.

“Nope. I promise,” John says. “It’s not that kind of medicine. Trust me?”

“Okay,” Sherlock says and hands it back to John. He smiles and fills the dropper again, and Sherlock obediently opens his mouth. With practised ease, John empties the dropper towards the back of his tongue so he is forced to swallow. Sherlock grimaces horribly, and John can’t help but chuckle as he lets out an almighty sneeze. He brings a finger up to his lips, tongue working earnestly against the roof of his mouth to try and dispel the taste. John hands him the glass of water, holding it steady for him as he takes an eager gulp.

“One down and one to go,” John says. Sherlock looks absolutely horrified. 

“It tastes really gross, John!”

“I know, kiddo,” John says unable to contain his laughter. He uncaps the other one. “This one tastes like cherries.”

Sherlock looks at him sceptically, but lets John give him the dose anyway. The look of indignation on his face afterwards is really quite priceless.

“Tha – that’s not what cherries taste like at all,” Sherlock says, trying to brush the offending taste off the tip of his tongue with his fingers.

“They’re a bunch of liars, I know,” John chuckles, and lets him take a few more sips of water.

“Gross,” Sherlock says again, pouting after John takes away the glass.

“What say we try for some sleep again?” John says perching on the edge of the sofa.

Sherlock looks across the room to the dark hall that leads back to the bedroom. He worries the hem of his shirt with his fingers, twisting the fabric first one way then the other.

“What if —?” he hesitates, anxiety spreading across his face.

“What if what, Sherlock?”

“What if I forget again?” Sherlock says, finally looking up at him. John frowns not understanding what he means at first, and Sherlock casts his gaze fretfully back down the hall.

“Oh,” John says frowning. “Is that what happened? You thought you were still back there?”

Sherlock nods tightly. “I didn’t know where you were,” he admits in a small voice.

John lets out a long sigh and leans back against the sofa, opening his arms. 

“Come here,” he says, and Sherlock eagerly clambers into his lap, instantly curling into him as he presses his face to John’s jumper. “I promise I will be here,” John says, taking the afghan and wrapping it around them both. He reclines slightly so Sherlock is resting comfortably with his front to John’s stomach, his cheek against John’s chest. He traces one finger rhythmically up and down the cable knit pattern of the jumper for a few long minutes before clutching a handful of the material securely in his fist. He turns his head to the other side, burrowing in even more as he yawns widely, growing heavier by the second.

John rubs a hand up and down his back, watching as that little fist eventually slackens and Sherlock’s breathing evens out.

“Hoo, hoo!” Mrs. Hudson says quietly, tapping on the door frame. She looks a great deal more composed, and she has a carrier bag in her hand.

“Er, come in,” John says, keeping his voice soft and his hand moving.

“I just brought a few groceries for you two,” she whispers. “Just some cereal and apples and juice for the morning.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” John says.

“Oh I know, dear,” Mrs. Hudson says and sets about putting the items away in the kitchen. John smiles as she putters about, humming softly under her breath. She comes back out after a few minutes, a fresh cuppa in her hand, and gives it to John who sips it carefully before handing it back.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Johns says sincerely.

“You’re welcome,” she says setting it on the coffee table, her eyes shining. She sits on the sofa next to him and makes a sympathetic noise, hand sifting through Sherlock’s hair again. Sherlock, for his part, is completely oblivious. “The little love’s all tuckered out.”

“It’s been a hard day for him,” John says. _Hard life, more like._ He swallows thickly. 

“Will he be staying?” Mrs. Hudson says, quieter now.

“Yes, for the foreseeable future,” John nods. Suddenly, it hits him as he looks around his small flat that his mediocre one-bedroom apartment isn’t going to cut it. “Mrs. Hudson…I know I signed the lease for at least a year, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to break it.”

“Break it? Whatever for?” Mrs. Hudson says, nonplussed, as she continues to run her fingers through dark ringlets.

“I — well with Sherlock now, I have to find a bigger space.” He rubs his forehead with his fingertips, adding another thing to the never ending list of things he was compiling.

“No you won’t. You’ll take the flat upstairs,” Mrs. Hudson says, leveling him a look that belies her casual tone. “It’s got two bedrooms and it’s fully furnished like this one here.”

“No…Mrs. Hudson I couldn’t,” John says, uncomfortably. He remembers peeking in on the flat when he was first looking at Baker Street, but the cost of rent for the two bedroom was a bit above his budget.

“You can and you will. The way I see it, you’ve already signed a lease, what difference does it make whether you stay here, or in the other flat?” She smiles at him.

“But the rent —” he says.

“Pish. It’s not like anyone else has taken interest in the place. It’s the draught I expect. Awfully cold up there. Old windows, I should think,” Mrs. Hudson tuts. Which is a blatant lie, because they both know that 221B is actually a prime listing. He's about to call her out on it when he realises what she’s doing for him; realises that it's more than that, and she actually wants him — _them_ — to stay.

He wants to tell her that it’s much too much to ask of her, but the look she gives him is one that brooks no arguments. And if he were honest, a rather large part of himself capitulates all too readily to the relief of how easy and ideal it would be to move into the flat upstairs.

“Mrs. Hudson,” he says, voice rough with gratitude. “I don’t know _how_ I can ever begin to repay you.”

“Nonsense, dearie,” Mrs. Hudson says, patting his cheek.

“I feel like I’m taking advantage,” he says guiltily. The smile falls from her face, and she fixes him with a serious look.

“John.” Her words are weighted, a heaviness to them that takes John by surprise. “I’ve run out of chances to hear the patter of a child’s footsteps under my roof, so trust me when I say that having you and Sherlock take the flat is not a decision I have made lightly.” She gets a faraway look in her eye for a moment, memories transporting her to a different time and place. When she comes back to herself, her eyes are bright with tears. “This little boy right here is something special, and it would bring an old lady so much joy if you both would stay here.”

“I – yes. Of course we’ll stay,” John says, and Mrs. Hudson grabs his hand and squeezes lightly. John has to swallow a few more times against the tightness in his throat.

“I’m glad that’s all sorted,” Mrs. Hudson says, giving him a watery smile. She squeezes his hand one more time before getting up. “I will have the place ready for you first thing tomorrow. You just move in when ever you want, no hurry.”

“Thank you,” John says, and Mrs. Hudson nods. With one last caress to Sherlock’s curls, she makes her way out of the flat, the door clicking shut softly in her wake. 

John breathes deep, pressing his lips to the top of Sherlock’s head, leaving them there as he closes his eyes. An almost overwhelming gratitude for his landlady crashes over him, and he is reminded of her words. Sherlock is special, and he already touched so many people’s lives in such a spectacular way. What would have happened to him if the corruption he was subjected to eventually tore its way through that veil of innocence? He doesn’t want to think about that. All that matters is that Sherlock will never have to be forced or abused ever again.

“See?” John whispers, toeing off his shoes. “Look at how many people care for you already, Bones.” As careful as he can, he eases back to where he’s laying lengthwise on the sofa, head propped comfortably up on the armrest. Sherlock stirs only to tuck his head more securely into John’s shoulder. His little damp breaths unfurl peacefully against his collar, and John adjusts the blanket over them. “As long as you’re with me, I’ll see to it that you never doubt that again.”

Sherlock sighs in his sleep, gripping onto John’s jumper once more, and John threads his fingers through his soft hair. They breathe in sync, their hearts beating in tandem against one another, and John shuts his eyes, letting himself be carried off by the quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Edited 23/11/2015


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all have been so patient and so wonderful to this little story. This chapter is packed with all kinds of fluff to try and lighten it up a little. I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> xxHoney

John wakes to the dim sunlight filtering in through the small windows of his basement flat with a bloody awful crick in his neck, yet feeling more rested than he’s felt since he got back from the Afghanistan. For a moment, he wonders why that is until he registers the pleasant, warm weight resting on his chest, and the events from yesterday all come flooding back.

He opens his eyes and looks down, his bad shoulder twinging in protest from having subconsciously wrapped his arm around Sherlock to keep him from rolling off and onto the hard floor. He can’t really see from his position, but going by the faint snores coming from Sherlock, he gathers that the little boy is still fast asleep. As careful as he can, John loosens his hold and tries to get the blood flowing in his arm again. 

Once he feels like the damned thing isn’t going to drop off, and the pins and needles have receded to a dull ache, John brings his hand up again to sift gently through Sherlock’s messy hair. He pauses for a moment, waiting for the doubt and panic to creep back in — because technically, this was day one of his life being solely responsible for the welfare of another human being, and god knows how many ways he could cock that up before breakfast — but it never comes. Instead, he finds himself relishing this bit of respite; this feeling of everything falling into some type of working order for once, repairing all of the useless broken bits inside of him until all that remains is shining purpose, and the fierce duty to protect what is his. 

_His._

John takes a moment to mull over that thought, testing its weight and veracity to what he held true in his heart. He decides that yes, the phrasing is apt; Sherlock belongs to him just as much as he belongs to Sherlock. There is no going back from that. And if…if the courts decide otherwise, he will fight tooth-and-nail to be in this little boy’s life in any capacity because deep down, if he’s honest, he’s not entirely sure who saved who in the end.

His eyes automatically drift towards the small safe sitting on the writing desk, his mind wandering down much darker trains of thought. The thing inside exists as a thing in stasis; an insidious idea more than a tangible object like some sort of Schrödinger’s Cat made of steel and gun oil.

Strictly speaking, he isn't even supposed to have his service weapon any more. It's against the law, for one, and for two it belongs to the Army. But in the midst of the hairy mess of paperwork shuffled about in order to have him invalided and properly discharged, he may have mentioned he lost his gun during the siege. They didn’t bother cross checking the information given he was half out of it due to a fever brought on because of infection, and after that, it was just a matter of sending it through the post when all was said and done. 

At first, he didn’t know what motivated him to go to such lengths to keep the gun, but in recent months, that nascent darkness inside of him began to permeate his every thought, and he wonders if it was a subconscious motive he had in store. It is perhaps a Bit Very Not Good, and he wonders how long he would have gone until he inevitably gave in to those impulses and —

Good lord. He really does need therapy, doesn't he? 

He continues to run his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, trying his best to dissipate those disturbing thoughts, and feels himself dozing off again just as the dewy sunlight peers into the sitting room.

He wakes sometime later to the feeling of tiny hands pawing his face, and he blinks his eyes open. He is greeted with a pair of curious blue eyes staring inquisitively back at him.

“Good morning,” John says, voice roughened with sleep. The hands on his cheeks move up and down, in and out, little fingers wiggling as they explore the terrain of his face.

“Your nose makes funny sounds when you are sleeping,” Sherlock comments. He brings the hand not encased in the splint up to poke John's nose for emphasis. He wriggles it comically, and Sherlock presses his lips into a thin line trying not to smile.

“Does it?”

“Yes. It’s loud,” Sherlock says.

 _“Oh really?”_ John says in a falsely appalled voice. Sherlock’s almost-smile fades a little, and that just won’t do, so John leans in and snorts loudly through his nose, snuffling into the crook of Sherlock’s neck.

A glorious thing happens just then. Sherlock shrieks in surprise, and then dissolves into high, effervescent giggles as John tickles him under his chin and holds him tight to keep him from getting away.

“John!” Sherlock says through the laughter, and struggles to push John’s head away as he continues to snuffle and snort against Sherlock’s cheek. John sits up fully with Sherlock in his lap and continues to tickle him until Sherlock laughs a deep belly laugh that has John’s own eyes watering with tears of mirth. Sherlock throws his arms around John’s neck, pressing his smooth cheek against his as his giggles taper off, and John holds him swaying lightly from side to side as his own laugher dips down into a steady hum. It suddenly hits him that this is how his life could be from here on out, and a warm heady feeling blooms in his chest.

“I think,” John says pulling away from Sherlock so he can regard him seriously, “it’s time we got you into the bath.”

“Bath?” Sherlock says, a small, worried frown creasing his brow. “I don’t like baths very much.”

“Have you ever had a bubble bath?” John asks, and Sherlock shakes his head. “Ah, well that would be why, then.” He gets up, hitching Sherlock on his hip as he makes his way to the loo.

He sets Sherlock on the floor, and proceeds to turn on the tap, giving the ancient pipes a chance to warm properly before stopping up the drain. He rolls the sleeves of his jumper up to his elbows, and sets about trying to locate the small bottle of lemon bubble bath that came from his sister. At the time, Harry insisted he take it in one of her drunken stupors, saying she needed him to get rid of it for her because it reminded her too much of Clara. He had reluctantly agreed, and in hindsight is quite glad for it now. He turns around from rummaging in the cabinet with a triumphant _‘ha!’,_ showing it to Sherlock.

The little boy is standing next to the tub, engrossed in sweeping his hand back and forth through the water. After a moment of this, he looks up at John, his expression bright and full of wonder.

“It’s warm!” Sherlock informs him.

“Well, yes,” John says kneeling next to him and making sure the water isn't too hot.

“I didn’t know you could make them warm,” Sherlock says in a soft, sad voice, continuing to trail his fingers through the water. John looks at him, incredulous. He closes his eyes against the icy sorrow filling his chest. God, would he never stop being blindsided by the blatant cruelty Sherlock was made to endure? No wonder he hated baths, if it meant sitting in a vat of freezing water the whole time. He clears his throat, attempting to shake off that sadness, and unscrews the bottle.

“Just wait. This is the fun part,” John says and pours a thin stream of bubble bath into the water. He sets it on the ledge and agitates the water with his hand, and Sherlock’s eyes grow big as the tub fills with fluffy white bubbles. He reaches out a finger and pops one of the bigger ones, giggling softly. John turns off the tap, and helps Sherlock take off his shirt and splint. “Just be careful with your arm, okay? We’ll put it back on when you’re done.”

“Okay,” Sherlock says, and John lowers him into the warm water. Sherlock skims his good hand over the tops of the bubbles, gathering them towards him at first and then pushing them away in fascination. John grabs the flannel hanging by the sink and begins to scrub his back and shoulders. “John, look!”

“Hm?” John says. Sherlock holds up a hand full of foamy bubbles, and blows, puffing out his cheeks. They fly everywhere, and Sherlock laughs in glee. “See? Baths aren’t so bad.”

“I think I like them now,” Sherlock agrees, and blows some bubbles at John.

“Hey!” John says, wiping a hand over his face. Sherlock’s clarion giggle rings out through the bathroom, and he claps a hand over his mouth almost bashfully as if he didn’t know he could make such a noise. “You think that’s funny do you?” John says and takes some water in his cupped hand so he could spill it over Sherlock’s head. He swipes at some bubbles and dots his nose with them, chuckling when Sherlock sneezes. “Look up for me.” Sherlock tilts his head back so John can finish rinsing his hair. He uncaps a bottle of his shampoo and pours a little into his palm, working a decent lather into Sherlock’s bramble of curls.

“Smells nice,” Sherlock says still playing with the bubbles.

“Smells _clean,_ you smelly child,” John says, and Sherlock giggles again. It’s a sound that John will never get tired of for as long as he lives, he’s sure, and in that moment makes it his goal to make sure Sherlock laughs as often as possible. “Eyes closed,” he instructs, and begins to rinse out the suds. He keeps one hand shielded over Sherlock's eyes just in case, and runs his fingers through, making sure to scrub down to his scalp as well.

Just then, a knock sounds from the sitting room, and the familiar _‘Hoo hoo!’_ floats down the hall.

“Missus Husdon is here,” Sherlock says.

“Mrs. _Hud_ son,” John corrects.

“Hud-son,” Sherlock repeats screwing up his face. John laughs and smears another wodge of bubbles on his nose before getting up and drying his hands.

“I’ll be right back,” he says. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“Okay,” Sherlock says tenting his knees upwards and resting his chin atop them.

John smiles, and follows the sound of banging cupboards and rustling bags coming from the kitchen.

“Mrs. Hudson,” John says. She startles, turning around from breaking apart a bunch of bananas and putting them in a bowl along with some other fruit.

“Oh! I didn’t know you were in, dear!” she says bringing the bowl to sit in the middle of the table. “Where is the little love?”

“He’s in the bath,” John says. He eyes the various carrier bags strewn along the counter. “What’s all this?”

“I just wanted to pick you both up something hot to eat from Speedy’s,” Mrs. Hudson explains pulling out two Styrofoam boxes with hotcakes and sausages and a small cardboard cup of porridge. She bustles over to a set of matching yellow plastic bags and begins pulling out various clothes. “And these I got from Mrs. Turner. She has a grandson, all grown and moved away to Uni now, but these were some of his clothes from when he was small. Some jim-jams and socks and pants and the like. It’s not much but…” she trails off pulling out item after item and folding them neatly on the table. It is more than John could have ever asked for.

“Mrs. Hudson,” John says at a loss. “This is…incredible. Thank you.” He leans over and kisses her on the cheek and she blushes.

“Not a problem, dear. It’s not like Marie’s grandson was using them anymore.”

“It will save me loads on things I’ll need to pick up for him.” He reaches over and helps her air out some of the shirts. He’s thrilled that there’s a good sturdy jacket and warm mittens among the lot. It being November, the weather was getting progressively colder. “He doesn’t have anything. Not a stitch aside from what I brought him home in.”

Mrs. Hudson _tsks_ under her breath, and pulls out a set of bed sheets and a quilt with dancing elephants on it. “These should do for the bed that’s in the attic bedroom. I’ve made sure I got the right size. I’ve already dusted up there so it should be fit to move in any time you’re ready.”

John looks at her astonished, and a bit overwhelmed. “London would certainly fall without you here at Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson, I swear to God.”

“Oh you,” Mrs. Hudson says, shaking her head and refolding the quilt. John peruses the rest of the clothes and things, seeing to his mental list and crossing off some items with a satisfied little smile, pleased at how neatly things seemed to be falling into place. After a moment, Mrs. Hudson pauses, and fixes him with a confused look. “John dear…?”

“Mm?” John says, rolling a few sets of socks into neat little bundles.

“Is the tap running?”

“What?” John starts, head perking up. Sure enough the sound of water can be heard rushing thought the pipes. “Oh god. I’m an idiot.”

He jogs back to the bathroom where he left Sherlock, and pushes open the door with no small amount of dread.

The sight that greets him is, well, to be expected for leaving a precocious child unsupervised he supposes.

There are bubbles everywhere, dripping over the sides of the tub, creeping up the wall, and running onto the floor as the bath continues to fill with water. Luckily it hasn’t reached the point of overflowing yet, but the bubbles don’t seem to mind, virtually taking on a mind of their own as they continue to multiply. And there, in the middle of the towering froth, is Sherlock’s dark head and wide innocent eyes.

John can only purse his lips and grunt ruefully at the sight.

“I wanted more bubbles,” Sherlock says by means of explanation as John comes over to shut the water off.

“Yes, I can see that,” John says. He sits back on his heels and turns his attention back to his little culprit. He knows now would be the time to reprimand, however, the sight of Sherlock as he’s all but swallowed up by the bubbly mass is so ridiculous and…really quite _wonderful_ that John can’t help the laugh that bubbles (pun intended) to the surface. “Next time you want more, tell me, yeah?” he says and only laughs more when Sherlock sneezes again, causing the bubbles curling under his chin to scatter in all directions. Eyes watering, John unstops the drain, shaking his head and grabbing a towel.

Hearing the commotion, Mrs. Hudson tentatively pokes her head in and gasps when she sees the sight. This only makes John laugh harder.

“Look Missus Husdon! Bubbles!” Sherlock says cheerfully as he stands up, letting John give him a cursory rinse-off.

“My goodness,” Mrs. Hudson says, not able to keep her own smile at bay.

“Sorry about the mess, Mrs. H,” John says through his chuckling. He wipes down Sherlock as much as he can before bundling him up in the fluffy towel and lifting him into his arms.

“Not to worry, love. I’m glad to see that he’s feeling a bit better from last night,” she says. “Well, I should be going so I can let you two settle in. Don’t forget there’s breakfast on the table. I want my boys to be big and strong so you’ll need to eat it up while it’s still warm.”

“Will do,” John says, beaming at her.

“Bye,” Sherlock says shyly, bending his index finger a couple of times like he saw Molly Hooper do in some sort of secret little wave. Mrs. Hudson smiles softly at him and drops a kiss to his forehead before she leaves.

“Well,” John says surveying the crime scene before him. “That was an experience.”

Sherlock tilts his head thoughtfully, looking down at the glorious mess. “We need more bubbles.”

John barks out a laugh. “I’ll add it to the list,” he says tugging Sherlock's chin. “Let’s see what Mrs. Hudson brought for you, yeah?”

***

After changing Sherlock into fresh clothes, and wrangling some more medicine into him much to Sherlock's dismay, they were finally seated at the table (Sherlock balanced on a few of John's ancient medical tomes so he could reach) with their respective plates of hotcakes and sausages.

John watches as Sherlock tears his food into little pieces, a bit of sausage in one hand and a bit of hotcake in the other. He trades off munching first on one then the other before contemplating each curiously for a moment, and putting them both in his mouth at the same time. Given his expression, he is pleasantly surprised, and repeats the process humming a little in contentment. John eats some of the porridge, happy to just watch him make his little discoveries. Sherlock is so inquisitive and eager to learn, and seeing him have the freedom to explore and experiment the way children often do is fulfilling to watch.

“Is it good?” John asks, and Sherlock nods enthusiastically. “Do you want a bite of mine?”

Sherlock tilts his head in what is quickly becoming a trademark expression for him, and regards John’s porridge. “What does it taste like?”

“Why don’t you try it and see?” John says, holding out a spoonful.

Sherlock takes it and puts it in his mouth. He chews for a second before his face scrunches up and his mouth drops open in a moue of disgust, making John laugh. “Mu-thy!” he says through the mouthful, lisping as the goo sticks to his tongue. John gives him a napkin to spit it out, and some juice to wash it down. “Too mushy,” he repeats.

“It is a bit, isn’t it?” John says, taking the spoon back from him. He puts the rest of his own sausages on Sherlock’s plate, noticing that he seems to favour them the most, and takes a sip of his coffee. 

After a moment, Sherlock stops mid-chew, head perking up. He glances around with a frown on his face, and John looks up from reading the paper.

“What’s the matter?” John asks.

“Buzzing,” Sherlock says slowly, licking his fingers. He still has that funny little frown on his face, and with his splinted hand he rubs at his ear. John is reminded of the fluorescent lights in the hospital, and is about to ask what Sherlock is hearing when he suddenly hears it, too.

His mobile. Oh. _Oh!_

“Shit!” John scrambles up from the table almost upending the container of porridge. “Er. Don’t repeat that,” he says before ducking out of the kitchen, and lunging for his jacket hanging by the door. He unlocks the screen of his phone, and the glaring symbol of the low battery is flashing at him along with a notification for seven missed calls. Two are from his sister Harry, and the rest are from Sarah with voice messages to match. He listens to each one, her tone growing more and more irate, and kicks himself for completely forgetting all about his job — which he should have been at an hour ago as her last message informs him.

“Shit,” he says again under his breath, and promptly dials her back. He hopes his phone has enough juice to let him complete the call.

 _“Well, I guess I can call off the search party,”_ Sarah says when she picks up on the second ring, her voice terse and clipped.

“God, Sarah. I’m so, so sorry. I had a little —”

 _“Christ John!”_ she says, cutting him off. _“I don’t know what kind of practice you think I’m running, but you can’t just faff off when ever you feel like it. You are missing yesterday’s paperwork, and you bloody forgot to clock out!”_

“I know, but Sarah —”

 _“You get your arse in here right now, John Watson. I don’t want to hear any more excuses,”_ she says, and before John can get another word in, the line goes dead as she hangs up. John exhales loudly through his mouth, and rubs his forehead with his thumb. This isn't going to be pretty. He wants to call back and try and reason with her, but his phone is almost certainly dead now, and he figures she probably won’t have the patience to listen to him anyway. It was best to just go in and see her and…grovel, or something, because he really can't afford to lose his job now of all times.

“John?” a tremulous voice pipes up from the kitchen, and John ducks back in through the doorway. Sherlock sits in his chair with a stricken expression on his face, fists crushing sausage and hotcake to a sticky pulp.

“What is it, Bones?” John says. Sherlock doesn’t respond at first, and John kneels, gently uncurling his fingers from their death grip. “Sherlock?”

At this, Sherlock closes his eyes, a deep anxiousness settling over him that manifests as tremors through out his small frame. He opens his mouth a few times as if to say something, but closes it and simply buries his face into John’s hand when he brings it up to cup his cheek. He’s trembling harder now, and worried, John carefully lifts him up so he could look into his face. Sherlock isn’t having it, though, and tucks his forehead against John’s shoulder. At a loss for what else to do, John adopts the shifting sway from foot to foot he fell into last night, and murmurs soothing words of encouragement until Sherlock’s shaking subsides somewhat. 

“Mmh, mmhm,” Sherlock hums repeatedly into his collar bone, breathy and a little too fast. John can feel his heart patter, and Sherlock grips hard onto John’s jumper. John hugs him even tighter in reciprocation, shushing him gently. This seems to have the desired effect because the tension suddenly drains out of his little body and he inhales deeply as if finally able to breathe.

“There we go. That’s right, it’s all right,” John says calmly even though he is rather alarmed. He doesn’t know what just happened, but chalks it up to Sherlock’s general anxiety and the need to feel secure. After all, his entire world was upturned in under twenty-four hours. He holds Sherlock tighter still, and notices that this is doing the trick, and in the back of his mind he remember researching topics such as Aspberger’s Syndrome and the Autistic Spectrum, and similar compression soothing techniques, and wonders if this applies to Sherlock. It potentially explains many of his peculiarities, but then again John isn't big on psych. Perhaps Sherlock is just Sherlock, and doesn't know any other way to process the details around him. He is definitely a little mystery, that's for sure, one that John isn't confident he'll ever get to the bottom of. He continues relaying a steady amount of secure pressure, and after a moment, Sherlock finally lifts his head and studies John with a look of lingering trepidation.

“All better?” John says smiling, trying not to let his concern show. Sherlock nods shyly, playing with the collar of John’s jumper for lack of anything else to do. “Can you tell me what you were feeling?”

“It’s…” Sherlock falters, unsure of how to express what's going on inside of him. Instead, he places both hands on the sides of John’s head and presses inward slightly, and then moves down to John’s chest to repeat the action. Then, spreading his hands he stretches his arms out wide. “And sometimes like that, too. Like big and small at the same time.”

“Hm,” John says. “Do you feel like that often?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says glumly. His rests his hand on John’s shoulder, looking down at it. “I’m — I’m sorry.”

“Hey. You don’t have to apologise for that. Ever. Do you understand?” John says cupping Sherlock’s chin. He looks back at John, confused. “No one should feel ashamed for what they feel.”

Sherlock takes a moment more to process this new paradigm, his eyes traveling back down to John’s chest in contemplation. “Okay,” Sherlock whispers, seemingly coming to a decision with a sheepish smile. He puts his hands back on John’s cheeks and simply looks back at him.

“Good,” John says, and snorts one more time, startling another laugh out of Sherlock. “Now come on. We have to run a few errands.” 

* * *

Sherlock grips John’s hand as they walk into the small clinic. John receives a look from the receptionist, Abigail, her neat eyebrows rising in astonishment as she stares at Sherlock.

“You’re in big trouble, Dr. Watson,” Abigail says, but smiles brightly at Sherlock and waves her fingers in his direction. He tucks his face behind John’s leg.

“Yes I suppose I am,” John says, sighing. “Is she in her office, then?”

“She’s doing a consult, but you can wait for her in there,” she says, and John nods.

“All right then. Into battle, I suppose,” he says, and leads Sherlock back to Sarah’s quiet office.

“That lady has three cats,” Sherlock informs him.

“Does she?” John says, closing the door.

“Mmhm. A white one and an orange one and a black one,” he says. “Why are you in trouble?”

“Well…I forgot to tell my boss about you, and she thought I forgot about work and because of it, I made it harder for her to do her job,” John explains and lifts him up onto his hip so Sherlock can see out of the windows behind Sarah’s desk. Yesterday he seemed to like looking out them at the wide world, everything new and full of wonder. The taxi ride to the clinic was amusing for John to say the least. It was the first time Sherlock wasn’t out of it with fear or exhaustion, and he eagerly sat on John’s lap with his face pressed to the glass as the hustle and bustle of London passed them by.

“Is it my fault?” Sherlock asks quietly, staring out the window. A magpie perches on a willow branch, and preens its feathers.

“No, it was mine. I forgot, plain and simple. There are just some things that are more important.”

“Do you help other people like me here?” Sherlock says, turning his curious gaze on him once more.

“I do. I help them when they are sick or hurt.”

“You make them better.”

“Yes.”

“You make them better like me,” he pipes with one of his shy smiles.

John smiles back. “Yes.”

“Then she won’t be mad anymore,” he says as if it really was that simple. He holds up his splinted arm for emphasis. “See?”

John chuckles, lightly pressing his forehead to Sherlock’s before dropping a kiss on his crown. “Well who could argue with that logic?”

“Ex-zactly,” Sherlock says, and John chuckles some more.

At that moment, the door swings open, and in breezes Sarah Sawyer. By her expression, John can tell she’s ready to tear into him, but she deflates, a startled breath leaving her as she takes stock of the...current situation.

“John — er…?” she stutters. “What’s…?” She gestures to Sherlock with the clipboard in her hand.

“Sarah; meet Sherlock,” John says into the awkward silence. Sherlock, bless him, does that little wave with his finger again, and Sarah’s hard countenance softens a little.

“Hullo, Sherlock,” she says, coming further into the room and setting the clip board on her desk. She props herself against the edge, arms folded over her chest. “Care to explain, John?”

“Well…you remember that house call you sent me on yesterday?” John says.

“The one you went AWOL on?” Sarah remarks, arching a sarcastic eyebrow. “Rings a bell.”

“All right, yes, I forgot to check back in, but under the circumstances I don’t think you can blame me,” John says, irritation prickling the back of his neck.

“Circumstances?”

“The call was on behalf of Sherlock, Sarah. It was a classic case of child neglect from the start, and I had to get him out,” John says simply. Sarah opens her mouth to no doubt yell at him, however something in her expression shifts, and she tilts her head as if seeing Sherlock for the first time. Her eyes travel to his splint, and they light there with some measure of significance.

“What about his father? Mr. Hope?” she says with a weary sigh. John goes to answer, but before he can Sherlock beats him to it.

“He’s not my father,” he says, shaking his head. John squeezes him lightly.

“He’s absent, and the one in question for the negligence,” John states vaguely. He isn't sure how much he's able to say, especially given the case is still under investigation.

“Then, who called it in?” Sarah says, and John realises he doesn’t actually know the answer to that. He looks at Sherlock, remembering him saying something about him having made the call, but in the chaos John never asked him how he managed to do so. Sherlock blinks at him innocently, and sticks a finger into his mouth. Instead, John says, “Chalk it up to a concerned neighbor, or something. The point is, there was no one else and so…so I…”

“So you took it upon yourself,” Sarah says, a soft rueful smile gracing her lips. “I’m not surprised,” and in a surprising move, she walks up to John and cups his cheek a moment, her previous ire forgotten. “Ever the soldier.” John gives her a grateful smile in return. It’s moments like these where he wishes they could have worked out once upon a time ago. “So, I suppose I can’t just get rid of you can I?”

“You can’t!” Sherlock blurts. “He makes people better, and he made me better, and John says you can’t argue with that log-ick.”

“Sherlock…” John says firmly, trying not to let his amusement get the best of his attempted parenting skills.

“Oh?” Sarah says, giving John a wink. “Well, if he made you better, then I guess there really is no arguing.”

Sherlock nods and holds out his splinted wrist. “It hurt a lot and he made it better. He made it so I don’t ever have to go back to Mister Hope,” he says, voice quavering at the end. Sarah’s face melts into one of sympathy as she takes Sherlock’s arm and examines it.

“It’s no fun being hurt, is it?” Sarah murmurs.

“No,” Sherlock says. With a curious tilt of his head, he touches the tip of his finger to the small circular scar in the crook of her elbow. “I have one like this on my leg. John made it better, too,” he whispers. “Did John make yours better?”

Sarah blinks at him, startled, looking to John for answers. He gives her a small, understanding smile. “Er. No. This happened a long time ago.”

“Are they gone?” Sherlock asks.

“Is what gone?”

“The person who hurt you,” Sherlock says.

Sarah swallows audibly, and presses her lips together. “They are very far away, now.”

“Good,” Sherlock sighs. He pats her arm, and seemingly done with the conversation, he turns in John’s embrace and wraps his arms around his neck, hugging tightly. “I made it better for you, John,” he mumbles. “It’s okay now.”

“Yes, you did,” John says, sharing a look with Sarah. He rubs Sherlock’s back the way he knows he likes, and Sherlock reciprocates like children learn to do, his little hand warm and soft against John's shoulder blade. It’s heart rendering, and John has to close his eyes a moment to keep from drowning in the tenderness he feels towards the little boy in his arms. “Sarah,” he starts a little gruff, “I think I am going to be cashing in my holiday early, if that’s all right? I have a few things to get sorted.”

“Absolutely,” she says, empathy crackling low in her eyes like a warm flame. She kisses him on the cheek. “Take as much time as you need, love.”

He nods, and with one arm pulls her into a grateful embrace.

“Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've also been leaving teasers and updates on my tumblr, oleanderhoney.tumblr.com, on this story as well as my other ones if you want to check it out!
> 
> **Edited 26/11/2015


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovelies! You all have been so patient in waiting while I was busy finishing up my other story. (If you are here because of 'The Colour of Light' then BLESS YOU I LOVE YOU ALL.) So I hope that you all like this little chapter. Sherlock's POV again, yay!

Sherlock grips onto John’s trouser leg as he watches him and his lady boss Sarah, talk about more papers and things. They are in John’s office now, and Sherlock looks around with interest. This is where John makes people feel better and patches up their hurts, and with a curious tilt to his head, Sherlock’s gaze lingers on the plaster skull sitting on the big desk.

He looks back up at John and sees that he’s busy still, and he sticks his finger in his mouth to chew on for a second in thought. He walks up to the desk, the top of his head barely level with the edge of it, and reaches up on tippy-toes to grab the skull. It’s a little heavy, and he almost drops it, but he clutches it close to his chest, and sits on the floor. He balances it on his knees, and runs his finger over the teeth and dips into the eye sockets. It is fascinating, and it almost seems to be grinning at him.

He ducks his head and whispers, “My name is Sherlock, and I think I want to take you with us.” He rubs the top of the skull, and imagines the toothy grin widening a fraction into something vaguely familiar. It makes him giggle softly. “I’ll call you Billy.”

“Thanks again, Sarah,” John says, squeezing her shoulder. “It was just so unexpected, and I really appreciate you meeting me half-way on this.”

“It’s not a problem, John. I will have someone fill in for you while you are gone. Just remember not to be a stranger,” she says. “I’m available if you need a break or need to go get drinks, or what have you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” John smiles. Sherlock gets to his feet, Billy the Skull tucked in the crook of his arm. He grips back onto John’s trousers with his good hand. John looks down at him, doing a double take at Billy before shrugging, and picking Sherlock back up to rest on his hip. “Are you ready to go, Bones?”

“Mmhm. Billy’s coming too,” Sherlock says, and pats the skull again.

“Billy, huh?” John says. “I can’t believe he’s been sitting on my desk all this time and I didn’t even know his name.”

“You didn’t ask, John. If you asked he would have told you,” Sherlock says pointedly.

“Oh, of course. How rude of me,” John says. “Nice to meet you, Billy.”

Sherlock laughs because John is _playing_ with him. He’s never had anyone to play with him before, and that is one of the absolute best things about John, he is pretty sure. That, and his hugs which were the _best_ best thing. Sherlock brings the skull up at eye-level, and smiles back at John.

“Billy says it’s nice to meet you too, and not to worry because he won’t tell about the candy you keep secret in your desk,” Sherlock says in a serious voice. John’s smile fades for a second in surprise before he barks out a laugh that makes his shoulders shake, and his breath to come out all wheezy. Sarah laughs too, bringing her hand up to her mouth, and Sherlock just smiles and pats Billy on the head.

“Oh, Christ,” John finally says, catching his breath. “What am I going to do with you?”

Sherlock doesn’t really understand the question, but that’s okay because John squeezes him tight and looks at him with his Proud Expression. Sherlock likes this a lot so he wraps an arm around John’s neck and hugs him tight. He hopes John always looks at him like that.

“You two have a good rest of your day,” Sarah says, still chuckling.

“We will,” John says, and Sherlock waves at her over his shoulder as they walk down the corridor.

“Where are we going?” Sherlock pipes as they situate themselves in another taxi cab. Sherlock likes taxi cab rides especially because he can look out the window, and if he asks a question, John won’t get mad and hit him for asking stupid questions or being annoying, and always tries to answer him even if his questions really are silly. And if John doesn’t know the answer, he says they will find out the answer later because that’s what good scientists do. Like why exactly the sky is the colour blue, and why the leaves turn brown and fall off the trees. Or why sometimes when it gets cold you can see the air when you breathe, and what all the different signs mean up and down the road. There are lots of signs, and John explains the ones Sherlock asks about even if he secretly knows what some of them mean.

“We’ve got to pick up some food and stuff for the flat. We’re going to the super market,” John says, answering him as he bounces his knees a little.

“Can we get more sausages?” Sherlock asks.

“We sure can.”

“And hotcakes?”

“Yep.”

“And more bubbles?” he says, hopefully.

“And more bubbles,” John confirms.

“Okay,” Sherlock says, settling back against John. Then he remembers. “But no porridge.”

John laughs again and hugs him briefly. “All right. No porridge. But I am getting some good fruit and veg; no compromises.”

Sherlock wrinkles his nose but nods anyway, and watches the cars zip past out the window.

The super market is busy, and Sherlock’s eyes grow wide when he sees all of the colourful aisles of cans and various boxes and things. The lights are bright, and there’s a lot of noise, and he stops in his tracks, hand slipping out of John’s.

“Sherlock?” John says turning around.

“I – I haven’t been to a place like this before,” Sherlock says. His eyes tack onto a clerk off to his right arguing with a customer, then jump to a girl riding a mechanical pony shrieking that she wanted to get off, then over to the flashing lights from one of the cash machines. A voice comes over a loud speaker, all crackly and shrill, and Sherlock flinches.

John kneels down in front of him, blocking his view from the chaos of the shop. “It’s a little overwhelming, isn’t it?” Sherlock nods. “Here, why don’t I get a trolley and you and Billy can sit up front, and you can name all of the red things you can see in one aisle, and then in the next one you can name all of the blue things and so on.”

“Like…a game?” Sherlock asks. 

“Exactly,” John says.

“Okay,” Sherlock says, and allows John to lift him up and set him in the top of a trolley. Sherlock sets Billy next to him, and puts his hands on the handle between John’s bigger ones. 

“Tell me which end we should start at,” John says.

Sherlock looks to his right, and then to his left, thinking for a moment. He points to the left. “That way.”

“That way it is,” John says, and steers the trolley in the direction of the produce.

Sherlock looks at all of the red things, but there aren’t many because most of them are green so it makes it harder to pick out, and before long Sherlock is concentrating hard on spotting them all, even the things in packages.

“What’s this one?” Sherlock asks pointing to an unfamiliar bunch of little red things tied together at the stems.

“Radishes,” John replies, chucking a bundle of carrots into the trolley.

“Radishes,” Sherlock repeats. They turn into the next aisle, and Sherlock rattles off all of the things he can see and read.

About halfway through the store they run out of colours, so John switches tack.

“I spy with my little eye something orange,” he says, giving him a sly look.

Sherlock looks around trying to find something orange. He looks directly over his shoulder to where John would have been staring, and exclaims, “Orange juice!”

“Very good!” John says and grabs a bottle of the stuff off the shelf.

Sherlock beams, and they continue like this through the rest of the shopping trip, John changing the direction he was looking, sometimes completely passing the item they needed in order to throw him off. But Sherlock got it every time because he was clever, and John told him so.

It was a lot of fun, and Sherlock forgot about all of the people and noise around him, and soon they are back in another taxi on their way back home. Sherlock yawns widely, leaning his head against John’s shoulder.

“Billy says he had a good time in the super market,” Sherlock mumbles.

“Did he? Well both you and Billy were very helpful,” John says still playing along with him, and Sherlock smiles. He tries to watch out the window again, but his eyes are getting heavy, and John starts humming under his breath. Before long Sherlock dozes off.

It only feels like a few seconds before John’s voice wakes him up, and he rubs his eye with his good hand.

“Come on, sleepy head. We’re home,” he says, and they get out of the cab. Sherlock yawns, and holds on to one of the bags in John’s hand as he lets himself be led into the flat.

“Mmph,” Sherlock says groggily, and follows John into the kitchen. He stands in the middle of the floor, falling asleep right on his feet until John comes over and takes Billy from his slackening grip. He’s vaguely aware of John unzipping his jacket and asking him a question, but he doesn’t really understand. “Mmph,” he says again, and is lifted into John’s arms and carried to the sofa. The fluffy blanket that smells of pine trees and cinnamon is tucked around him, and he falls asleep with John’s hand in his hair…

***

_Mister Hope is mad again. Sherlock can tell in the way he snaps and snarls especially at the telly, and in the way he stomps around._

_Something bad happened. Something that made Father and Mister Hope angry, and when Mister Hope was angry, Sherlock knew he needed to hide._

_That’s what he was doing now. He was in his secret place — the small cupboard in the hall. It was dusty and smelled funny, but it was warm and safe, and inside Sherlock could pretend he didn’t exist. If he was lucky, maybe Mister Hope would forget about him and go to bed, and then maybe Sherlock could crawl out and find something to eat. He hopes there is still that bag of bread on the table, and even though it is old and green, he hopes there are still some good parts. Just thinking about it makes his tummy squeeze tight in hunger._

_He brings his knees up to his chest, and buries his face in them and tries not to think about being hungry._

_He doesn’t know how long he sits in his hiding place, but it’s quiet in the sitting room, the telly having been turned off some time ago, and he raises his head._

_As quiet as a little mouse, he pushes open the small cupboard door and looks up and down the hall._

_It was dark, the sun setting rapidly, and Sherlock’s stomach makes another groan of protest. He tippy-toes across the floor, remembering to avoid all of the squeaky spots, until he reaches the sitting room. He has to go through it to the kitchen, but when he gets there on the threshold, he stops dead. An icy trickle of fear runs down his spine when he spots the top of Mister Hope’s head just over the back of the sofa. He should really just go upstairs to his room, but he’s really really hungry, and he decides to take his chances and creeps quietly past a slumbering Mister Hope._

_The sour smell of alcohol reaches him, and he breathes out a little in relief. Hopefully, Mister Hope will stay asleep like he usually does when he drinks a lot._

_Sherlock makes it to the kitchen, and quietly crawls up onto one of the dining room chairs in search of the bread he saw earlier. The table is cluttered, and at first glance he doesn’t spot the bread anywhere. He looks over his shoulder at the refrigerator on the off chance that Mister Hope forgot to lock it, but spies the brass padlock fastened securely in its usual place, his heart sinking. A few tears prick his eyes, and he wipes his nose with the back of his hand before looking back at the table. He’s about to give up when he spots the familiar blue plastic bag under an old newspaper. He reaches out bending forward as much as he can until his fingertips brush the edge, and he pulls._

_The paper shifts, sliding sideways, and disturbs an old water glass making it tip. Frozen, Sherlock can do nothing but watch in horror as the glass tips over the edge, falling in slow motion._

_Time resumes when it shatters apart on the kitchen tiles, and at the same time, the Monster wakes up from its slumber with a roar, causing everything to change in an instant._

_The shadows in the kitchen bend and shift, crawling across the walls to converge in on Sherlock, and a low growl can be heard from the sitting room. Sherlock is reminded of a fairytale with a giant, and wishes he was even smaller so he could hide behind a tea cup. He knows what’s coming for him, and he wants to run back to his hiding spot but he can’t move his legs, and is helpless but to stand there and watch as Mister Hope crashes into the kitchen._

_‘WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING, YOU LITTLE SHIT?’ he snarls, growing in height, his fingernails sharp and curling like a beast's._

_Sherlock’s heart pounds, and he is finally released from his trance. He jumps off the chair and falls, not on the floor but into a swimming pool full of water._

_It’s deep and Sherlock can’t touch the bottom but the beast of Mister Hope can’t reach him from where he’s at, stalking back and forth on the side of the pool with glowing red eyes._

_‘YOU BETTER COME HERE RIGHT NOW, SHERLOCK! YOU GET OVER 'ERE AND TAKE YOUR MEDICINE! YOU THINK I'M DONE WITH YOU? WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON YER I'M GONNA BREAK YOUR OTHER ARM, MARK MY WORDS, YOU SELFISH CHILD!’ Mister Hope rages, frothing at the mouth as his eyes grow wild and his claws grow larger._

_Sherlock can’t swim to the ledge because Mister Hope will snatch him in a second, but his legs are getting tired from kicking, and his feet feel like stones. He gets a mouth full of water, and he thrashes as much as he can to keep his head from slipping under the icy water, but it’s no use. He begins to get pulled under, and he holds his breath as best as he can before he has no choice. His chest is burning, and he is sinking sinking sinking, crushing darkness on all sides and —_

Sherlock gasps awake, tangled up in unfamiliar bed sheets and not knowing where he is. The first thing out of his mouth is a terrified, _“John!”_ because he doesn’t recognise the room that he’s in, and that means Mister Hope must have found him and now they have to hide again, going from house to another strange house, and no no no no no… 

“Sherlock? Sherlock!” John says, flying through the bedroom door.

“No, no, no, no,” Sherlock repeats the mantra in his head as he rocks back and forth, arms wound tight around his knees, eyes tightly shut as his heart beat echoes like a hammer in his skull.

“Hey, hey, hey,” John says, and immediately lifts him up into his arms. Sherlock, still partially insensate from his nightmare, clings to John blindly.

“Don’t want to go…” he moans brokenly, and John rubs his back.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John murmurs gently. He kisses his forehead and sways side to side. “It’s all right. I’m here, calm down.”

Sherlock’s head hurts really bad, and he only cries harder which doesn’t help at all. It feels like his brain is trying to squeeze out through his eye sockets.

“Joh – John!” he hiccups. His sobs break off into a thin string, trying not to jar his poor skull more than necessary. “My head, John. It hurts, it hu–rts!”

“Your head?” John asks, anxiety in his voice. He presses his cool hand against his brow. “Okay hang on, love.”

Gingerly, John cradles Sherlock in his arms, his head resting in the crook of his elbow and makes his way down a flight of stairs.

“Mmphm,” Sherlock sobs and sucks in a sharp breath. Everything was feeling big and small again, and it was making him feel like he was going to fly apart from the inside. He grabs onto the front of John’s shirt and tries to keep himself from slipping away.

“Is everything all right?” comes a vaguely familiar voice, but Sherlock can’t bring himself to open his eyes. The lights were too bright, and they were stabbing at his eyelids.

“I’m not sure, but I think it’s a migraine,” John says, his voice low and sibilant. 

Sherlock doesn’t know what that means, but he feels himself being lowered into a cushy chair — those strong, safe arm releasing their hold — and panics.

“No, no! John! Please, I don’t wanna go, I don’t wanna go!” Sherlock cries, holding tighter onto John's shirt giving him no choice but to keep him in his arms.

“Sherlock, it’s okay. I need to go get you some medicine, I’ll be right back,” John says.

“N – no medicine! I’ll be good I promise!” Sherlock says prying his eyes open so he can see, making sure John is really there. It was a mistake, because the sun from the windows was really bright causing a spike of pain to shoot through his head again.

“Miss Hooper, can you draw the curtains for me?” John says. Sherlock buries his face in the crook of John’s neck, holding tight as he starts walking again. “Sherlock, I need you to try and calm down, can you do that for me? Can you be brave, Bones? You’re head will feel better if you calm down.”

“O – kay,” Sherlock says, trying to stop his crying. John was here. Mister Hope was gone forever. He breathes in deep, the clanging in his head causing him to whimper still. “Hurts,” he can’t help but sob.

John is sitting him down on a counter of some sort, and Sherlock peeks out under his lashes real quick to see where he is. It’s a dim bathroom that looks like the one from this morning, but the tub and the toilet are on different sides. John rummages in a small kit he pulls out from the cabinet, and takes out a bottle of pills.

“This is medicine but it’s good. It will make you feel better.”

“I don’t want it,” Sherlock moans, closing his eyes again and pushing at John.

“I know, but I need to give it to you,” John says, a hand coming to the back of Sherlock’s neck so he could tilt his head back. He puts a pill in Sherlock's mouth, and his insides squirm. He feels like he’s at the bottom of the pool again, trapped on all sides. “Breathe, Sherlock. It’s okay, I’m right here. Now swallow it — there you go. All gone.”

Sherlock whimpers as the dry pill scrapes down his throat, and reaches out blindly for John again. “Mister Hope, he was a monster and he wanted to get me and I couldn’t swim, John. I was sinking and and —”

“It was just a dream, Sherlock,” John says, giving him a little sip of water before picking him up and holding him close. “I will never let anything happen to you. I promise. I’m sorry for bringing you up to your new room without telling you. I should have waited for you to wake up before moving us into our new flat.”

“What – what happened to our old flat?” Sherlock asks, tremulous. His head still hurts, but he’s feeling calmer now that John’s holding him tight again the way he likes. The big/small feeling is starting to go away.

“We needed a bigger one, so Mrs. Hudson let us move into the one upstairs,” John explains as he walks out of the bathroom.

“Missus Husdon is still our landlady?” Sherlock asks, laying his cheek on John’s shoulder. He sniffles, the little shuddery gasps tapering off as he relaxes into John’s embrace.

“Yep.”

“Good. I like her, she’s nice,” Sherlock mumbles.

"Close your eyes, now. I’ve got you," John whispers as he crosses the sitting room to the lumpy red armchair. Before Sherlock does as he’s told, he catches a glimpse of that nice Molly lady standing in the middle of the room, jotting something down on a clipboard. She looks up and smiles, and he waves a little before turning his face into John’s collar bone.

"Everything all right?" Molly says.

"Yeah, just had a bit of a scare. We're all better now. I appreciate you coming out but I confess, I wasn't expecting the assessment to take place so soon," John says, settling himself in the chair with Sherlock curled up against his chest. He can hear John's heart, and he nuzzles his face into his jumper. This one is really soft against his cheek and smells like shower gel and mint.

"Inspector Lestrade wanted me to make sure you and Sherlock were settled in, and to discuss with you what you can expect for the upcoming court case."

"Wait, court case?" John says, tensing. He places a protective hand on Sherlock’s back. “I thought we were all done?”

“No, Dr. Watson. He helped us identify the victims, but…he’s at least admitted he was a witness. The courts will want him to testify,” Molly says apologetically.

Sherlock is trying to listen, but his head is still muzzy and sore, and he feels warm and cosy, and he doesn’t really know what all that means. He remembers reading about courthouses, though. And barristers with funny white wigs and black robes.

“What…does that entail, exactly?” John says, and Sherlock can feel him swallow hard. His voice stays steady though, but Sherlock can still tell something is wrong.

“It requires him to sit before a judge and answer questions on what he may have seen the suspect do,” Molly says quietly.

“And you’re okay with this? After — after all he’s been through?” John says, his voice sounding like thunder again, and Sherlock bites his lip. He doesn’t like it when John’s upset, and ex-pecially because it has to do with him.

“Nobody wants to put Sherlock through any more than we have to, but it’s not up to us to decide. He’s the only thing connecting Hope to the murders. The fact that he was there…they’re going to have to hear it from him.”

“Jesus,” John says, and Sherlock flinches. He _knew_ he wasn’t supposed to say things, and now because he did, he was making things worse.

“He is a child witness, though, so he qualifies automatically for protection. He won’t have to set foot in the courtroom. I do _promise_ you that, Dr. Watson,” Molly says earnestly.

“M’sorry,” Sherlock mumbles barely above a whisper, and John shushes him gently, hand carding through his hair as tenderly as possible. His scalp feels extra sensitive, almost painful, even though the clanging in his head has died down somewhat. His breath hitches, and he brings the middle two fingers of his good hand into his mouth. It soothes him a little and he manages to turn his face to the side, peeping out of his hiding spot.

Molly’s wearing a bright yellow jumper today with a basket of ducklings on the front. The bright colours almost hurt his eyes, so he looks down at her shoes. They are new, and a little bit fancy, and when he looks up again he notices that her hair is swept up and she has red lipstick on her lips. She didn’t look like that the last time he saw her, and he wonders why. When he looks closer, details like the fact she has a new kitten, and she took a taxi over here, and she was standing next to someone who was smoking a cigarette, and she only got a few hours of sleep and and and and — surge to the surface, making him sob anew with a swell of fresh pain. He tugs on John’s jumper and tries to muffle the new tears with his fingers.

“Miss Hooper —”

“Call me Molly, please,” she says, her gaze sympathetic when she looks at Sherlock.

“Molly,” John says getting to his feet again, and Sherlock snuffles piteously. “I have a very ill child on my hands. Perhaps this is best continued at another time?”

“Yes, of course. I just wanted to give you a heads up so you aren’t surprised in the coming days,” Molly says, standing likewise from the other armchair across from them. “This is a high profile investigation. There are some important people tied to it, and the Inspector and I want to try and prepare you both as much as we can.” She reaches out a hand and sweeps some of Sherlock’s hair off his brow, and Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed for a moment at the feel of her warm fingers. He pulls his hand away from his mouth and grips onto the cuff of her sleeve briefly before she pulls away, and she gives him a finger to hold onto. It is oddly comforting, and he grips it securely.

“What important people?” John says.

“Some people who hold positions in the British Government,” Molly says. She releases Sherlock’s hand and pulls a yellow envelope out of the bag slung over her shoulder. “We were able to find his birth certificate.” She hands the envelope to John. “His full name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

“Holmes…” John says. “You mean, as in the late Prime Minister _Anton Holmes?”_

“I’m afraid so. This is his son. Well…his illegitimate son.”

“How did he end up with a serial killer?” John says.

“That is something the police are still trying to figure out,” Molly says.

“Christ,” John sighs, and walks over to set the envelope on the small writing desk.

“I’m really sorry about all of this,” Molly says. “Someone will be in touch shortly. But the good news is, Michelle Stamford has requested to be Sherlock’s social worker in the process of getting him officially placed, so that should go smoothly at least.”

“Yeah,” John says, pulling Sherlock up higher into his arms. Sherlock’s fists his right hand into the back of John’s jumper as best as he can with the splint. Molly waves at him before she leaves, and Sherlock lays his head back against John’s shoulder. His head was finally starting to feel better, but now everything felt like it was rocking back and forth.

“John?” he says.

"Yeah?" John says, hand traveling up and down his back.

"Am I gonna have to talk to the police man again?"

"Yes. I am so sorry, Sherlock. They still need your help."

Sherlock frowns a little. The twisted face of Mister Hope swims to the surface of his memory, and his hateful words echo in his ears.

"John?"

"What is it, Bones?"

"If I help them, Mister Hope will be locked up forever and he won't be able to hurt anyone ever again, right?"

"That's correct."

"And I'm the only one that can do it?" Sherlock asks, raising his head to look at John.

John gives him a searching look. "I'm afraid so, Sherlock," he says quietly.

"I think maybe…I'm okay with that," Sherlock decides. Mister Hope was a bad man who hurt a lot of people. Sherlock didn't want anybody else to get hurt anymore.

John gives him a radiant smile, the one that makes Sherlock warm inside, and pulls him close in a tight embrace.

"You are really quite extraordinary, you know that?"

Sherlock doesn’t know how to respond to this so he just hugs John back, resting his head back down against John's comfy shoulder. He was feeling heavy, and he yawns widely. “Come on. It’s time for another dose. I’ll make you some warm soup and then we can lay back down, sound good?” John says. Sherlock nods, too exhausted to do much else, and allows himself to be placed at a large table on a stack of books.

John gives him the medicine that tastes like cherries and vinegar, and Sherlock grimaces, rubbing his tongue furiously against the roof of his mouth. John gives a sympathetic smile, and hands him a glass of water before bustling about and heating up some chicken noodle soup from a can on the small cook top. It smells really good, and Sherlock tummy grumbles. He is reminded of his nightmare, and has to remind himself that he is with John now, and John won’t let him starve no matter what because he promised he would always take care of him. Sherlock wants to take care of John too, and when he sets the bowl down in front of him, Sherlock immediately takes up the spoon and scoops a steady amount of broth up. He blows carefully like John did that morning when eating the hot porridge, and holds it out to him.

“You eat too, John,” Sherlock says. John chuckles as he sits next to him with a cup of tea.

“I will in a little bit.”

“No, now,” Sherlock insists, lifting the spoon a little higher. One of the noodles falls off and lands back into the bowl with a little splash. “Missus Hus… _Hud_ -son says we need to both be big and strong.”

“That’s right, she did say that didn’t she?” John says, mouth crooking into a grin when Sherlock nods earnestly. “All right then.” He opens his mouth and lets Sherlock give him a bite. “That’s good. Now you.”

Sherlock nods seriously, and spoons some of the soup into his own mouth. It’s warm and tastes delicious, and he wants to gobble it all down, but he dutifully holds another spoonful up for John. John laughs a little and they finish the soup that way, taking turns back and forth until Sherlock is full, and his limbs are heavy.

John clears away the dishes, and Sherlock hops off of his chair and follows him to the sink. He wraps an arm around John’s leg and leans against him sleepily while he washes up, his eyes drooping and his head falling forward.

“Looks like an early bedtime tonight,” John says, picking him up.

“M’not too tired. I can stay up more,” Sherlock mumbles. “Want to stay up.”

John hums and carries him up the stairs. “We had a busy day today, and you need your rest so you don’t get even more sick,” he says and helps Sherlock dress into a pair of soft pyjamas.

“But I’m getting better,” Sherlock pouts, and John helps him crawl in under the blankets.

“One step at a time, love,” John says and pulls the quilt up to his chin. His eyes are trying to shut despite his want to stay awake.

“John?” Sherlock says.

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“Is my name really William?”

“According to your birth certificate,” John says, sitting on the side of the bed. He braces his arm on the other side of Sherlock’s waist, and Sherlock plays with his fingers.

“I don’t like that name. It doesn’t sound like me.” He yawns.

“What does sound like you, then?” John asks. He grabs Geoffrey from the bedside table and tucks him under the covers.

Sherlock thinks for a moment, a thought occurring to him. “Why do you call me Bones, sometimes?”

“Oh, it’s just a silly little nickname. Do you want me to stop calling you that?”

“No. I like it,” Sherlock decides. He cuddles Geoffrey against his face for a moment. “I have a lot of nicknames, though. Mister Lestrade calls me ‘sport’, and Michelle calls me ‘sweetheart’, and Missus Husdon calls me ‘little love’. I didn’t know you could have so many names. Why do people do that?”

John tilts his head curiously and brushes back some of his hair. “People give each other nicknames to endear one another. They mean something specific to someone, and it’s a form of affection.”

“You call me two things,” Sherlock says. He wraps his fingers around John’s wrist. “Is when you call me ‘Bones’ the same as when you call me ‘love’?”

John’s eyebrows lift, and he looks away for a moment. “I suppose they do. They both mean that you are very dear to me.”

Sherlock sigh and burrows down into the blankets some more. He can’t keep his eyes open, but he doesn’t want to let go of John and holds on as best as he can through his drowsiness.

He decides that nicknames are just a little bit strange, but he likes when John calls him those things. He’s only ever been called mean things from Father and Mister Hope, and didn’t know there was another side to it. It seems important, somehow and he thinks that John needs a name too. Before he can come up with one, however, he feels himself succumb to a deep sleep, warm and for the first time content to close his eyes knowing that when he wakes, John will be there...

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” John whispers and kisses his forehead. “I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yes and I updated my [tumblr](http://oleanderhoney.tumblr.com/) and it has this nifty little 'updates' tab at the bottom that I will be using to let you know what's coming up and stuff if any of you want to check it out. Cheers!
> 
> **Edited 27/11/2015


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello you lovely patient people, you! Okay so if you know me, you know I have been apart of a production these past few months, and over the course of these three weeks I have been in hard-core performance mode, so I apologise for the mini hiatus this has taken! Now...a few of you doves have been asking me about Mycroft, and hopefully this answers a few questions. I hope the wait was worth it, and I hope you like the direction I've taken with the Holmes brothers in this. Feedback, as always, is most welcome.
> 
> LOVE YOU GUYS!  
> xxHoney

John sits on the bed next to Sherlock, listening to his soft snores for a moment, his thumb rubbing the back of his little hand where it had fallen away from clasping John’s wrist. He checks Sherlock's temperature by pressing his lips to his brow, and frowns. Sherlock is still a little warm, but it isn't too bad. His little body was still trying to fight off the infection that had been festering for who knows how long due to the wound on his leg.

Sherlock snuffles for a moment, and when John pulls away, he exhales a breathy sigh.

“Papa…” he murmurs, barely coming to the surface before he slips under again. He nuzzles his face into the pillow, stuffed bumblebee tucked securely under his chin.

An overwhelming bubble of tenderness expands in John’s chest, and he attempts to swallow back the tightness in his throat. He huffs a laugh, once again astonished at the way his life seems to be turning out. Never in a million years did he think about…fatherhood. And now that it's happened, he can't picture it any other way; can't picture himself without one curly-haired, extraordinary little boy occupying every corner of his life.

John looks down at his hands, running his palms over the tops of his trousers and then staring at them again. He doesn’t even recognise these hands anymore, and if he were to stand up and search for a mirror, he would bet that he wouldn’t recognise the face that stared back, either.

Who is he, now?

He never really thought about it in his youth like most of his peers growing up, but now the enormity of this question rises to the surface. He doesn't know how to answer that — some of the things in his past causing guilt to crest. He pushes the thoughts away, and instead focusses on a bigger, more important question.

Who does he _want_ to be?

He looks back at Sherlock and immediately knows the answer.

John tucks a wayward curl behind Sherlock’s ear, lingering as it playfully twists around his finger in a silky strand. A soft smile caresses his lips, and he gets to his feet and clicks off the bedside lamp.

He makes his way back down the stairs, standing in the centre of the sitting room for a moment with his hands on his hips. There is still a lot to do before their new flat is in order. John casts a critical eye over the boxes stacked on various surfaces, the area rug with a hideous floral pattern, and a hodgepodge of eclectic furniture. There is a weathered leather sofa shoved against a wall papered with garish Victorian wallpaper, a dinky coffee table in front; a writing desk to the left centred between identical colonial style windows; and a geometrical contemporary floor lamp in the corner incongruously next to a table lamp that probably belongs back in the seventies. But perhaps what is the most interesting is the cow skull mounted on the wall above the desk. He'll have to ask Mrs. Hudson what kind of person would have such an odd assortment of décor. And if he can get rid of anything.

The good thing is, he finally has room enough for all of his things. He opens up a box of tried and true paperbacks, fingers running nostalgically over the spines of his spy novels. These got him through Uni once upon a time ago, and it is fitting that these would be the first of many filling the sturdy bookcases on either side of the fireplace. 

The more he is able to picture his things out of their cardboard prisons, the more he is able to look past the mismatched living area, and he concedes that it's perhaps quite cosy in retrospect. He pulls out a tartan afghan and drapes it over the back of the ugly maroon armchair, giving the backrest a solid pat. He sneezes at the cloud of dust that billows up, and shakes his head.

“Good lord.” It seems as if their humble abode still needed a good dose of elbow grease and tough love. 

Before he can get started, however, Mrs. Hudson knocks on the door to the kitchen.

“John, dear?” she says.

“In here, Mrs. H.”

“Someone left this for you just now. Didn’t you hear the door bell?” she says coming around the corner. John instantly narrows in on the familiar object clutched in her hand.

“My cane?” John says, puzzled. He takes it from her.

“I guess the buzzer is broken again,” Mrs. Hudson tuts.

“No I’m sure it works. I was just upstairs putting Sherlock down,” John muses, eyeballing his cane with suspicion. “Sorry, who did you say gave this to you?”

“Some lovely young lady. Very posh,” Mrs. Hudson says winking as she idly fluffs his Union Jack pillow. “Didn’t give her name but she said you would know what to do with it.”

John frowns inspecting the grey polymer grip of the standard hospital cane. There’s something different about it, he’s sure. In fact, he’s positive the grip has been replaced. He gives it an experimental twist, and sure enough the handle pops off.

“It looks like you’re settling in slowly but surely. Did Sherlock like his room?” Mrs. Hudson chats, bustling around the sitting room. She managed to procure a rag for dusting from somewhere, and begins to wipe down the bookshelves.

“Hm?” John says absently. He peers into the end of the hollow grip and catches a glimpse of something. He pokes his finger inside and feels the corner of a scrap of paper. Becoming more perplexed by the minute, he angles his fingers like a pair of forceps and lifts the little scroll from its hiding place. “What in the hell?” he murmurs, and unfurls it. His face darkens when his reads the simple typeface of the message printed across the white paper.

_The telephone box around the corner, Dr. Watson. Go to it and wait for further instructions._

He scoffs, and turns the paper over.

_It would be prudent to do as you’re told. For Sherlock’s sake._

An icy deluge trickles down his spine, causing his stomach to quiver and plummet. His pulse skyrockets and adrenaline surges through him, and the tide that is his fury rises. His hands are rock steady, however, infused with a deadly and capable stillness, and he folds the paper into his pocket.

“Mrs. Hudson,” John says, voice calm. “Do you mind staying here with Sherlock for a bit? I have an errand to run.”

“An errand? Yes of course, it’s not a problem. I’ll have the kettle boiled for you when you get back,” Mrs. Hudson says with a smile, and continues on with her dusting.

“Thank you. And stay by the phone in case I need to call you,” John says. He hopes he won’t have to call her, and he can handle what ever this is without alarming anyone. He quickly makes his way to his room and retrieves his gun from the safe in the back of his wardrobe. He tucks it into the back of his trousers and grabs his trusty haversack, shrugging it on. “Off out!” he calls just before he descends the stairs, placing his keys and wallet into his pocket. He had Inspector Lestrade’s number memorised just in case, but he was relying on his ability to neutralise the threat before it would come to that.

He walks down the pavement in steady, determined strides, his resolve hardening with each step.

The phone in the telephone box was ringing even before he rounded the corner.

He spies a man a few paces ahead stop for a moment and cock his head at the jangling noise. John slows, stalling to see what he will do. The man goes to open the door but just before he does, the ringing cuts out. He frowns for a moment and shrugs before walking away, nonplussed. John casts a wary eye around, gaze flickering over shuttered windows above shop fronts and down dark allies. He feels the hairs stand up on his neck, a metallic buzz tracing along his arms that has nothing to do with the chill or the dim street lights. Ominously, the phone rings again, and without hesitation John steps in.

He lifts the phone off the cradle and presses it to his ear, not deigning to speak, because obviously he is being watched.

 _“There is a security camera attached to the building to your left,”_ the mechanical voice sounds down the line. _“Do you see it?”_

“Who is this?” John says, gritting his teeth.

 _“Do you see the camera, Doctor Watson?”_ the voice insists.

John peers out the grubby window to his ten o’clock flank. A CCTV camera is mounted on the top corner of the building, and just as John scrutinises it, it swivels around pointing in an aimless direction.

“What —?” John says.

 _“There is another camera the building opposite to you,”_ the cool voice informs him on the other end. _“Watch closely,”_ the man says, and John spots said camera just before it swivels around like the other. _“And finally, at the top of the building to your right.”_

John clenches his jaw. “How are you doing that? What do you want?”

 _“Get into the car, Doctor Watson,”_ the man says, and as if on cue, a black car with tinted windows rolls up to the kerb. _“I suppose I could threaten you again, but I would hope I have made your situation quite clear.”_

The line goes dead, just as a driver opens the door for him, and John slams the phone back onto the receiver. He marches over and glares menacingly at the driver.

“Where are you taking me?” John demands. The driver holds his ground, but John doesn’t miss the nervous shift in his stance.

“My employer is requesting an audience with you, sir.”

“Yes, I gathered as much,” John says tersely. “Who is your employer?”

The driver, a young man still wet behind the ears most likely, clenches his jaw. “I’m not entirely sure. I’ve never met him; I’ve only been hired for the day.”

John narrows his eyes, and takes a menacing step forward, taking pity when the younger man involuntarily takes a step back. “You need to know that I am an angry, trained, war veteran who’s quite possibly the slightest bit unhinged with a gun in the back of my trousers. I will not hesitate to use my skills if there is any funny business to be had, is that clear?”

The driver blinks, staring straight ahead. He swallows audibly. “Crystal clear, sir.”

“Good,” John says and slides into the back of the car. “Crack on, then.”

* * *

John didn’t know what he was expecting, but somehow pulling into a derelict warehouse didn’t surprise him in the slightest. After all, why suspend the drama and show up at an office or a café like normal people?

Irritated, he gets out of the car, touching the comforting weight of his gun at the small of his back before jerking his jacket down.

His eyes tack immediately onto a man standing in the centre of the warehouse, ankles crossed and leaning on a brolly as if he had all the time in the world. He's young, almost as young as the driver, however the confidence and authority he radiates makes him seem a lot older.

“Good evening, Dr. Watson,” the man greets, tone casual as if he didn’t just threaten and essentially kidnap him. “You needn’t have bothered with your gun. I am unarmed.”

John stops a good length away from him, folding his arms over his chest. “What do you want?”

“I just want to have a chat with you,” the man says. He points with his umbrella towards a chair off to John’s right. “Please, won’t you have a seat?”

“I prefer to stand.”

The man’s eyebrows lilt upwards, and he gives John an unctuous grin. “Yes I suppose you do.” He takes a few steps towards him, polished leather shoes tapping against the concrete. “You don’t seem very afraid,” he observes.

John scrutinises him. “You’re not very frightening. What are you, twenty-five? At most?”

“Twenty-nine,” the man clips. He subconsciously pulls his shoulders back, and raises his chin, his petulance reflecting his true age for a moment. John resists the urge to scoff.

“Well your parlour tricks are hackneyed. You should know I don’t much appreciate being threatened at my own home, and I _really_ don’t take kindly to anyone threatening my child.”

“Ah that’s the thick of it, isn’t it? _Your_ child. You’ve only known him for two days and you’re already deeming yourself his father? Awfully noble of you. Of course, sacrifice is in your nature, being a soldier and all.”

“Who the _hell_ are you?” John snarls, hackles rising, a low thrum of alarm beginning to spark in his blood.

“A concerned party.”

At the end of his rope, John closes the gap between them and grabs a fist full of the man’s posh suit.

“Look. I am running on fumes here, and I really don’t have time for this beating-around-the-bush shit.” He releases him. “Now this is me asking nicely: what do you want?”

The man adjusts his tie and clears his throat, finally having the decency to look somewhat ruffled. “That’s quite a temper, Dr. Watson. Quite a temper indeed." He pulls out a small, dubious notebook from his breast pocket and flips it open. "Invalided over a year ago; shot in the left shoulder while working on a comrade, correct?"

"What is that?" John says, craning his neck to try and see.

The man continues on, licking his thumb and flipping to another page. "It seems after all that, your brother-in-arms still ended up succumbing to his wounds. Pity."

John swallows, his throat tightening.

“It left you in a bad way. Traumatic wound; infection; PTSD, and a psychosomatic limp to top it all off,” he presses, clicking his teeth in mock sympathy. “But it seems as if the limp has healed itself. I wonder why that is?” He casually turns to another page.

“Where did you get that?” John says, finally finding his voice.

"Your therapist. I can see why you fired her. She didn't seem too bothered with releasing your records for a reasonable sum."

"That's against the law," John says, shaking with rage, and though he would never admit it, a tiny amount of fear.

The man gives him a condescending look. "Come now. Do I look like a person who is concerned with such trivial matters?"

"If you have a point, I suggest you make it. I am running out of patience," John growls. His fingers itch to draw his gun simply to gain some modicum of control, but it would be pointless when the man is clearly unarmed. He still had his sense of propriety about him after all.

Sharp eyes flash over him, and the bastard smirks reading his intentions as if they were written like a scrolling marquee across his forehead.

“I’ll get to it, shall I?” he says, closing the little notebook with a small snap. “My name, Dr. Watson, is Mycroft Holmes, and Sherlock is my brother.”

“Brother?” John says, shifting his stance as he deflates a little. “I don’t understand.”

“Surprise, surprise” Holmes deadpans with a sarcastic twist of his mouth.

“On his records it says there is no next of kin,” John says, ignoring the other man’s disdain.

“Altercations to official records aren’t hard to come by in my line of work.”

“And by your ‘line of work’ I’m assuming you mean government, correct? Like the late Mr. Holmes?”

Mycroft smirks at him again. “See? You can be rather smart if the mood strikes you. Yes, my father was a public official, but what I do is not so front-and-centre.”

“MI5?” John asks, to which Mycroft tips his head in acknowledgment. “You don’t look like a field agent.”

The other man’s eye brows lift in mild surprise. “You are familiar, then?”

“I wasn’t just a medic,” John states cryptically. “I’ve been around.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft says. “I prefer to provide my skills and services closer to home. Leg work is not my forte.” He rocks up on the balls of his feet, letting his heels drop sharply against the floor to punctuate his point.

“Right. So what are you doing here? Why cast aside your anonymity now?”

Mycroft drums his fingers along the top of his umbrella handle. “My father, may he rest in peace, was highly admired in the public eye, I’m sure you recall.” John nods remembering the polls casting him as the favourite amongst the people even after elections. He was rather bohemian in his policies and the younger generation gravitated to him. It was quite tragic when he died so suddenly. “However, behind every politician there is surely a scandal. Sherlock is that scandal.”

“Sherlock is a child, and he never asked to be part of a scandal,” John says. He has a lurking feeling this is going to involve some sort of cover up to save the Holmes reputation, and if that is the case, he wants no part of it.

Sure enough, Mycroft pulls out a cheque book. “I am willing to offer you a considerable sum in exchange for your silence on the matter. I am aware the Met is looking in on his case, and I have already handled the Superintendent on the job. Homicide will drop the case as long as there is no one else to pursue the matter.”

“A bribe,” John scoffs, disgusted, yet wholly unsurprised.

“That is the crude term for it, I suppose, but yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you are not a wealthy man.”

“No I mean, he’s your flesh and blood! Is your reputation really that precious to you that you would cast aside your own brother?”

Mycroft’s face darkens. “Cast aside? Oh no, you mistake me, Dr. Watson. I am very much concerned with the affairs of my, how you say, ‘flesh and blood’.”

That dreaded coldness envelopes him once more, and he squares his feet automatically lowering his centre of gravity, his combat instincts taking over in light of a threat. “What are you getting at?”

“I’ve simply come to take him off your hands. He is, after all, my brother.”

John gives a half-aborted shake of his head as his rage grows dark and fearsome. When he speaks it is tight and controlled, “He’s lived nearly five years at the hands of truly horrible people, and has known nothing but fear and abuse and hatred and extortion, and _now_ you want to take care of him?” The mere selfish audacity has his control slipping, and he gives in to the fury building behind his eyes. “Where the fuck were you when they were starving him, hm? Where were you when they _broke his goddam arm!”_

Mycroft Holmes flinches at this, his smug expression slipping off of his face, and John revels in it, listening to his own voice ricochet off the walls of the empty building.

Holmes adjusts his tie, looking contrite for the first time. He swallows, and then says quietly, “I wasn’t made aware of his existence until yesterday.”

“Really,” John says, flat and unconvinced.

“My father was the only one concerned with the Holmes public image. Five years ago I was making a name of my own, and could hardly be bothered about what he got up to. I stayed out of his affairs and he mine, until he ran into some trouble with a prostitute.” John’s eyebrows dart upwards, and Mycroft huffs a sour breath out of his nose. “Oh yes. My father had very distinct tastes. She tried to swindle him out of a great deal of money, using the supposed child they had illegitimately conceived as blackmail. I helped clear his name, believing whole-heartedly that the child was a ruse, and after I defamed that tawdry harlot, I never heard from her again and the issue was closed.”

“Jesus…” John says wiping a hand over his face.

“Had I known about him, about what he can do, I would have —”

“Wait,” John says cutting him off. He doesn't like the sudden hungry gleam in the other man's eye. “What do you mean?”

“According to the reports by Inspector Lestrade, Sherlock is quite extraordinary in his own right. He’s a genius, as is a natural trait that runs in the Holmes family, and he needs the proper environment to cultivate his brilliance. I can provide him the best education and a guaranteed and illustrious career when the time comes.”

John’s eyes widen, a sickening picture coming together in his mind. “He’s not some little automaton you can just stick in a boarding school until he’s old enough to bloody work for you. That’s not how children work.”

Mycroft’s lip curls, showing a hit of teeth. “And you are an expert, are you? Please, enlighten me on how children work.”

“In case you didn’t realise, that little boy has known nothing but cruelty. He’s damaged, and needs more than just a prim education! He needs nurturing and constant reassurance and to know that he can simply be a child, albeit a smart child, without owing anybody anything.”

“Damaged, yes. And you would know all about that, wouldn’t you, John Watson?”

John’s eyes flash with malice. His jaw clenches as that hateful notebook makes its appearance yet again.

“John Hamish Watson, oldest of two; sister, Harriet Merida Watson; Mother, Elizabeth June Watson, died due to diabetic complications when you were young; Father, John senior. Alcoholic, abusive, causing you to wind up in the hospital on more than one occasion, correct?”

John swallows, the sides of his throat sticking. 

“Seems like your sister, although having escaped the brunt of the physical abuse, has inadvertently taken after him as far as the drinking is concerned.”

The words are like a blow to his chest, and for a moment he stumbles back. “Enough!” he hisses, the urge to draw his gun increasing by the second, the pulse in his ears thundering like shrapnel.

“What makes you think you are equipped to take care of Sherlock?" Mycroft strikes, fangs in his glittering eyes. "Seems to me abuse, begets abuse. Even now, your first reaction is to jump to violence,” he says, reading the brutality in John’s stance and shaking fists.

John takes a moment to compose himself. He unclenches his fists, and breathes deep. “The difference is, I choose not to act on it, Mr. Holmes,” John says not bothering to keep the wrath out of his voice but making a show of his unwavering control. “But everyone is capable of violence, even you. And I’ll not let another person use Sherlock as a pawn to exploit for their own gain.”

“Do you realise what you are getting yourself into if you stand in my way?” Mycroft says, an edge creeping into his sharp gaze, belying his controlled exterior.

“I’ve been to war. It doesn’t scare me.”

Mycroft scoffs through his nose, folding the notebook away. He adjusts the lapels of his suit jacket. “Very well, Dr. Watson. If it is war you want, you shall have it. Expect my solicitor to be in contact with you the next couple of days.”

“Looking forward to it,” John clips.

Mycroft gives him one last assessing glance before he tips his head. “Good day,” he says and makes his way to the black saloon, sliding in. John doesn’t relax until the car drives away and out of his sight. At that moment, his phone rings, and he answers.

“Mrs. Hudson?” John says.

_“Oh hello, dear. The little love’s awake. His fever broke and he’s been asking for you.”_

“Is he all right? Tell him I’m on my way,” John says, half jogging towards the main road in attempt to flag down a taxi.

_“He’s perfectly okay. Panicked at first, but I gave him a warm milky and tucked him back in. He says he won’t go to sleep until you get back, though. Stubborn lad,” _she chuckles fondly.__

__“All right,” John says, heart slowing and slipping into the cab he managed to hail. “See you in a mo. And thanks, Mrs. H.”_ _

* * *

__When John finally makes it back to Baker Street, he lets himself in quietly not wanting to disturb the warm glow of peace enveloping the flat. A fire is crackling merrily in the grate, casting the sitting room in dancing shadow and orange light. Mrs. Hudson for her part, apparently tried to tidy up. The book shelves are now full of his books, the mantle festooned with knick-knacks and properly dusted, and the area rug had obviously been Hoovered in his absence. He shakes his head, spotting her in the red armchair, head lolling to the side, steam curling from the still-warm tea on the side table. She must have only just nodded off waiting for him._ _

__“Mrs. Hudson?” John says, keeping his voice low. He puts a hand on her shoulder, squeezing lightly. “Mrs. Hudson?”_ _

__“Mm? Oh!” she says sitting up and blinking owlishly. “Must have dropped off.”_ _

__“Sorry it’s late,” John apologises helping her to her feet._ _

__“Not to worry, love. I’m here any time you need me,” she says bidding him a goodnight with a pat on the cheek._ _

__John smiles as he looks around the sitting room. She really was a saint._ _

__He glances up the stairs to the attic bedroom, remembering his little charge, and ascends them as quietly as he can just in case Sherlock managed to fall back to sleep.__

His heart stutters in his chest however, when he notices the bed is empty. The floor suddenly gives way to a chasm of fear, and for and endless second John is paralysed. He hopes his eyes are playing tricks on him, and he manages to snap out of it long enough to turn on the light. But no, the bed is still empty, the bedclothes dipping to the floor. The threats from Mycroft Holmes ring loud in his ears, and the thought of Sherlock being whisked away in the night is enough to uproot him from the ground and jar him into action. 

__He flies down the steps two at a time, and is in the middle wrestling his jacket back on when he pauses, letting some of the rationality seep back into his thinking despite the horrible thoughts reeling through his mind._ _

__It only took twenty minutes to get back to the flat from that warehouse, and surely Mrs. Hudson would have noticed someone coming in to abduct Sherlock. He acknowledges his nerves for the past hour have been stretched to breaking in his need to have his head about him at all times. Obviously, he should check the rest of the flat before he jumps to the worst possible conclusion; secure the area and then go from there. He takes a deep breath, deliberately taking a moment to hang his jacket back on the peg by the door, and his eyes linger on the hall leading back to his room. A familiar tuft of yellow and black lies against the baseboard, leaving a trail for him to follow. He scoops up the bumblebee and smiles down at it, allowing his heart to resume its anatomical place back in his chest._ _

__Taking care not to step on the squeakier floorboards, he makes it to the door at the end and pushes it open._ _

__The secondary light from the kitchen reveals the soft sleepy mass bundled under his quilt, a nest of curly black hair peeking out from the make-shift burrow. Sherlock shifts, curling tighter in on himself, and gives a lengthy sigh of the truly beat, causing the covers to slip down to rest against his nose and mouth._ _

__John tip-toes closer, and automatically gauges his temp with his palm against Sherlock's sweaty brow, noticing that the fever did seem to be ebbing._ _

__“John…?” Sherlock mumbles, his eyes still closed. He nuzzles into John’s cool hand, attempting to rouse himself._ _

__“I’m home, Bones,” John says. “Go back to sleep.”_ _

__“Mmkay,” he says huffing a small breath, falling asleep almost instantly, and John doesn’t have the heart to try and move him back upstairs._ _

__Shaking his head ruefully, he strips down to his boxers and undershirt, and gently climbs in next to the sleepy little pile of boy, the adrenaline crash making him bone-weary in a way he hadn’t felt in ages._ _

__He groans when his muscles unfurl against the surprisingly plush mattress. He closes his eyes as he sinks into the soft sheets, wholly welcoming the quiet._ _

__The voice of Mycroft Holmes rings in his ears, however, causing sleep to evade him._ _

_‘If it is war you want, you shall have it.'_

__He had no doubt Holmes had power that John didn’t, and who knew how far that power extended to? He most certainly wouldn’t play fair, and the thought causes John’s gut to twist._ _

__He turns his head, eyes lighting on the shadowy figure of Sherlock snoring softly next to him in blissful ignorance. He skims a hand over his back, and then up again to where he rests it on his head. Subconsciously, Sherlock turns over and seeks him out, curling up into John’s side. It’s an awkward angle, Sherlock insisting on sleeping tucked tightly under his arm the way he is, but after a bit of subtle manoeuvring, John is able to pull the blankets comfortably around them both._ _

__Taking a cleansing breath, John puts his worry outside of himself, and shelters Sherlock in his arms. He bends to drop a kiss into his hair like a benediction; a promise._ _

__“No one is going to take you from me. I won’t let them…”_ _

__He falls asleep, the velvet of night smoothing the cruel edges of the world where a hopefully brighter tomorrow could take its place._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Too tired to edit as in depth as I normally do. Well go back and read to make sure it's consice, so sorry if any of you feel this wasn't up to par.
> 
> Thanks again! *smooch*
> 
>  
> 
> _*Edited 2/3/2016_


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Oh my goodness. Over a month since I've updated this? This is quite inexcusable, and I apologise. Every single one of you, especially some of the new tumbr followers I've garnered because of this, have been amazing. I cannot thank you enough for your encouragement. I admit I got a bit stuck for awhile, and I didn't want to let you all down with a crap chapter. Hopefully this makes up for it!
> 
> xxHoney

The past week has been a week of learning for John.

For starters, he learned that his knees still have quite a bit of life left in them with all of the lifting he’d been doing. Maybe it’s the joy of unexpected parenthood that make his achy joints seem inconsequential, even though they complained when he crouched down to see what Sherlock discovered in his tiny cupped hands while cleaning out their broom cupboard. 

He also learned that Sherlock isn’t the least bit perturbed by dead, petrified mice that have been lurking in the walls for god knows how long, and by proxy, found John’s accompanying shriek of horror — which absolutely _was not_ girly in the slightest — hilarious. The little brat giggled the entire time John scrubbed his fingers, intermittently asking questions about the mouse and how it may have died. 

Which brought him to another fun fact: Sherlock was immensely curious. About _everything_ , and John learned to be vigilant lest he turn his back in the kitchen for _‘Two seconds, honestly!’_ only to have to clean up an entire bag of flour that had mysteriously toppled off the counter and all over one decidedly guilty looking little boy. Through this delightful experience, John also learned that flour is extremely difficult to scrub out of Sherlock’s curly hair, and also that Sherlock didn't find these particular baths very fun, especially since there were no bubbles.

Further more, John learned how to get stains out of t-shirts (because curiosity can be very messy), which newspaper had all the best coupons (for the cheapest detergent), and to keep the silverware in its drawer and the electric toaster on top of the fridge and to never, _ever,_ let them near each other or in Sherlock’s reach ever again. At least, not unless he wanted to make it to forty without keeling over from a heart attack.

He had yelled at him for that one when he spotted Sherlock balanced precariously on one of the dining chairs, trying to poke at the toast with a metal fork. It was the first time he ever raised his voice above a normal volume, and Sherlock dropped the fork immediately, nearly toppling off the chair in panic. John caught him just in time, gripping him firmly with a little shake and a _‘Don’t you ever do that again!’_ before crushing him into a hug.

Sherlock flinched at first before clinging on for dear life, and that’s when John learned another thing about his charge. He was bloody terrified that much is obvious, but most disheartening of all, Sherlock was terrified of _John._ Or rather, what John might do, having known nothing but a heavy hand in the past. It caused a lump of guilt to form in John's throat, and he bagan to observe Sherlock more closely in attempt to strike a balance between authority and reassurance.

At first, Sherlock was timid and wide-eyed, fearing the slightest look of consternation as if John would up and change his mind the moment he disobeyed, and chuck him back to where he came. But he was only five — not even that according to his birth certificate — and it was only a matter of time before all of the moving around, settling in, and chaos of Sherlock's new life caught up with him, resulting in a spectacular meltdown in Michelle’s office a few days later.

Sherlock hadn’t slept very well, unaccustomed to a set bed time, and not wanting to stay in his room by himself. John had to carry him back upstairs three different times when he was woken up by a miniature bed octopus burrowing into his side in the middle of the night. 

John could see the frustrated tears forming behind long lashes as they clung together in clumps, bravely trying to hold them back each time John left him all alone in his big bed. By the third and final time, John was sure Sherlock would dissolve into some sort of tantrum as five-year-olds were wont to do, but he bit down hard on his quivering lip and allowed John to tuck him back in, breath hitching as he tried to hold back his sobs. He only managed to fall asleep with John stroking his hair in the end.

The next morning he was quiet, face pinched and wan from lack of sleep, and was completely uninspired by the eggs John made for breakfast, pushing them around his plate until they grew cold and inedible. 

Tired and hungry, and made to go on tedious errands with John all day, it was no wonder when he fell into histrionics when he spilled his carton of apple juice all over his favourite dinosaur shirt. The day had been long, and Sherlock had absolutely reached his limit, his anxiousness and frustration finally pouring out as he threw the juice box to the ground while John was talking over logistics and paperwork with Michelle.

“Sherlock!” John had scolded before apologising to Michelle as he grabbed a handful of tissues from her desk. “That is _no_ way to act!”

Sherlock recoiled violently, shoulders hunching and his face draining of colour until he was as white as a sheet.

John didn’t notice at first, too busy daubing at the spilt juice from the parquet carpeting.

“John?” said Michelle. He looked up, and she gestured towards Sherlock who was in the middle of hyperventilating, eyes brimming with hot tears.

“Hey, now. It’s all right it’s just juice,” John had said. Which was apparently the wrong thing to say, because it caused Sherlock to fling both arms up to cover his face as he sunk to the floor, knees drawn up close to his chest as if expecting to be kicked. For a moment, John was shocked into an abject silence as the little boy folded in on himself, his heart turning over painfully in his chest as his own dark memories flooded to the surface. But at Sherlock’s keening whine, John snapped out of it and quickly scooped him up.

Sherlock was rigid in his arms, face pressed into John’s chest as he murmured a litany of _‘I’m sorry’_ over and over, shaking as if he would fly apart at the seams.

He was inconsolable to the point that Michelle decided it was best to leave them alone in her office for a bit while John tried to bring Sherlock around.

John was grateful, not knowing what else to do except sit on the small sofa and hold him as the blind panic ripped through his small body. John was familiar with attacks such as these, and knew there really wasn’t much to be done but try to breathe through it and let it run its course.

Finally, after a good ten minutes, Sherlock was reduced down to shuddering breaths, and mournful sniffles. He was utterly worn out, but a great deal calmer.

“There we go,” John said, brushing the curls off his clammy forehead. “Can we try using our words, hm?”

Sherlock shook his head, lower lip trembling.

“Okay. Let me give it a go,” John said, bouncing his knee a little. “You got frustrated, yes?” A timid nod. “And then you threw your juice box on the floor, full well knowing that that is not what we do with our juice when we get angry.” Another nod. “And then I upset you by yelling, correct?”

“I didn’t mean to!” Sherlock wailed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

“Shh, settle down,” John soothed. “I’m sorry I frightened you, but that’s not the way we behave, Bones. You know that.”

Then, Sherlock said something that confirmed John’s suspicions as to why Sherlock was really holding back.

“You don’t want me anymore.” He lowered his head, defeated.

“Hey,” John said sharply, hooking his chin up with his finger. “There is _nothing_ you could do to ever make me not want you.”

“But…I was bad,” Sherlock said, eyes filling with tears again.

“Yes, but it happens. Even I get frustrated sometimes, and behave badly. We learn, we accept the consequences, and then we move on.”

“Consequences?” Sherlock said, body coiling tight again as if expecting a blow. John had to breathe around that familiar punch to the gut, praying silently that the constant fear of pain or abandonment Sherlock lived in would fade one of these days.

“Yes. For instance, because you threw your juice box, you don’t get any more juice, and I'm thinking that warrants an early bed time for tonight,” John said diplomatically.

Sherlock frowned, puzzled, distrust flickering in his blue eyes. “That’s it?”

“I’m not going to hit you, Sherlock. Not ever,” John said softly. Sherlock stayed tense and unsure for a moment as he processed this, looking at John for any sign he wasn’t telling the truth. He apparently didn’t find any because the relief that washed over him was palpable, and he sagged in John’s arms.

After that little incident, Sherlock seemed less restrained — less terrified that he was going to be abused or abandoned — and more at ease with being himself. With being the child that he is.

Like now, for instance, when John learns yet again how petulant Sherlock can actually be if he’s in a mood.

“Eat your carrots, Sherlock,” John says for the second time as he takes a bite of his tuna sandwich.

Sherlock sighs and picks up one of the half dozen baby carrots on his plate John served him with their lunch. He looks up at John, bringing the carrot to his mouth, and John smiles as he resumes reading his paper. Or rather, pretends to read as he watches Sherlock lower the carrot and swiftly tuck it into his sock. John looks up over his paper just as he’s smuggling another one.

“Sherlock,” John says in what he hopes is his No Nonsense Voice, even though he always has to bite down on a smile whenever Sherlock is doing something particularly clever. (John even noticed him chewing as if he really was eating the carrot, before ferreting them away.) It's too cute to be legal, he's pretty sure, and if Sherlock ever cottoned on to the fact John finds his antics amusing, John would have a bloody tyrant on his hands.

As if on cue, Sherlock’s baby blues grow wide and beguiling (which is also unfair, causing John to check his grin yet again) as he tries to maintain an air of innocence.

“What?” he says in a sweet voice.

“Don’t ‘what’ me,” John says, turning a page in the newspaper. “You actually have to eat them, and not just take them off your plate. Now get them out of your socks, please.”

Sherlock breathes a slow, guilty breath out of his nose and takes out the stowaway carrots. He holds one up in front of him like a death warrant, starting at it forlornly.

“Go on,” John says, lips twitching. His amusement fades, however, when that familiar flash of panic clouds Sherlock's clear blue eyes. John gets the impression this is more than just not wanting to eat his vegetables. “Sherlock, look at me. Tell me what’s wrong,” he says in that calm, firm voice that seems to work so well.

“I can’t eat them, John,” Sherlock starts, his breath coming swiftly on the edge of escalating.

“Stop,” John says. “Explain it to me one piece at a time; like we’ve be practising, remember?”

“Mmhm,” Sherlock says, face scrunching up in concentration, some of the irrational fear ebbing. “I…can’t eat the carrots.”

“Why not?” John asks patiently.

“They are —” Sherlock frowns as he looks for his words. “They taste too orange,” he finally gets out.

John blinks at him not sure if he heard him right. “They taste too orange? Can you tell me what that means?”

“It means they are too orange,” Sherlock reiterates, huffing an angry breath, eyes darting back and forth as if the answer was written on the table top under his clenched fists. He finally looks at John again, and holds out the carrot. “Too _orange!_ It tastes like sticky and too sweet and like spicy, too. All at the same time.”

John looks at him uncomprehendingly. “How…?”

Sherlock directs his gaze back to the table, a veritable ball of frustration and tiny rage. It’s actually quite adorable.

“It’s stupid,” he mumbles. “I’m stupid.”

“Hey,” John says sternly, the amusement fading. “That is an ugly thing to say, and I won’t tolerate it. Ever. Do you understand?”

Sherlock looks at him, wide-eyed and surprised at the vehemence in John’s voice. His cheekbones flush with anxiety, but he doesn’t fall to pieces at John’s reprimand. He just nods, and John rewards him with a soft smile.

“Good. Now…come here,” he says, putting down his paper.

Sherlock hops off his tower of books and eagerly crawls up into John’s lap. He grabs each of John’s wrists and crosses them over his chest in the way he likes John to hug him, and he obliges by embracing him tightly. John blows a raspberry on his cheek, causing Sherlock to laugh that jubilant laugh of his, and rests his chin on top of his curly head.

“Do I have to eat my carrots?” Sherlock asks after a moment.

“No, I suppose not,” John sighs. “I will just have to figure out a different way for you to get your veggies.” He pauses, a thought occurring to him. “Sherlock…is it like that with other things? Can you…taste other colours?”

“Only the big ones,” he says, filching the top slice of bread from what is left of John’s sandwich. He licks a bit of tuna off his finger before munching on it happily. 

“What do you mean by 'big ones?'”

Sherlock stops his chewing, and John looks down at him, watching him try to come up with the right words.

“Like too much of the colour. Carrots are too orange, and orange is the worst flavour.”

John contemplates this for a moment. Perhaps what Sherlock is describing is some form of synesthesia. He’s heard of the concept before, people hearing numbers and smelling different sounds and the like, and honestly he wouldn’t be surprised if this is the case with Sherlock. He is already extraordinary in so many other ways as it is, why not this as well?

“Hey, Bones,” John starts, and idea forming in his head. “How would you like to do an _experiment?”_

***

Sherlock and John sit in the middle of the sitting room in front of a small fire. It's rather chilly out today, so he kept the coals burning low in case they needed to stoke it up later. 221B is rather draughty in the winter, John is coming to realise. He stirs the fire a little, and replaces the metal grate while Sherlock watches him curiously, his chin atop his knees.

Before John resumes his place across from Sherlock, he reaches up and grabs a bag of M&M’s off the mantelpiece, along with his (who was he kidding? — Sherlock’s) blue scarf. The little boy’s eyes light up at the sight of the chocolate candies, an eager look on his face. Sherlock, having never been given treats, is head over heels for the stuff, his favourite being the Galaxy Minstrels John usually keeps in his desk at work. The M&M’s are essentially the same, except they all have a brightly coloured candy coating that John had never been particularly fond of. He opens the bag with a sly smile and tosses one of the candies in the air, catching it with his mouth.

Sherlock grins, and perks his head up when John does it again.

“What are they?” he asks.

“These are M&M’s.”

“Em-em-ems?” he chirps. “Chocolate?”

“Yep,” John says, tossing another one into his mouth. He holds out a green one to Sherlock. His eyes light up, and he crawls forward on his knees, reaching out to take it with his little hand. At the last second, John ducks his fist away and pops that one into his mouth too.

“Hey!” Sherlock says with a scowl, lips pursing in indignation. John laughs.

“I don’t know if you should get any chocolate; someone didn’t finish their vegetables,” he teases while pulling out a blue one.

“No fair!” Sherlock whines, and he wraps both hands around John’s wrist, tugging. John tickles him in the side, and Sherlock shrieks. “No fair! No fair!” He wriggles around, still clutching John’s arm, crawling into John’s lap for better leverage.

Taking the arm that isn’t being clung to like a tree branch, John clamps it around Sherlock’s waist surprising another bout of laughter out of him, and they both topple over, Sherlock sprawled out on top of him as he triumphantly manages to get a hold of the blue M&M.

“Sher…Sherlock!” John giggles helplessly and out of breath as Sherlock pokes him in the nose, smiling his clever smile before putting the candy into his mouth. He hums, his pink tongue licking his lips, and John looks at him with an amused grin. “Is that good?”

“Mmhm. I like them,” Sherlock nods, curls falling into his eyes. He would need a haircut soon.

“What does the blue one taste like?” John asks leaning up into a sitting position again, Sherlock sitting in front of him in the vee of his outstretched legs. He rubs at a sore knee for a minute, silently bemoaning the fact that he isn't as young as he used to be.

“Blue is…” Sherlock trails off, scrunching up his face as he thinks. “Blue is like peanut butter.”

“Peanut butter?” John says, eyebrows inching towards his hairline. He pulls out a green one. “Try this one.”

Sherlock eyes it between his thumb and forefinger before dropping it into his mouth. He chews for a minute, nose scrunching in distaste. “This green is too green. Tastes like sour stuff and burnt toast.”

John huffs a laugh. “Close your eyes,” he says reaching for the scarf. Sherlock laces his fingers together and puts them obediently in his lap as he does what John says. A warm feeling blooms in his chest as how readily Sherlock is to trust him, and he smiles to himself as he secures the scarf over his eyes like a blindfold.

“Can you see anything?”

“No,” Sherlock says, touching the scarf with his fingers.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Um…two?” Sherlock says, guessing correctly on the first go.

“You little cheater!” John exclaims and tickles him some more until he’s breathless with laughter. “Okay, okay. We are doing a science experiment, we have to be serious.”

“Okay,” Sherlock says, and his brows knit under the blindfold in determination.

“All right,” John says, still chuckling as he takes out another M&M. “This one is a red one.” He pops it into Sherlock’s mouth.

“Red tastes like they way winter feels,” Sherlock says, his tone going soft and sad. John looks at him for a moment wondering what that means, but decides not to ask. Instead, he picks another candy out of the bag.

“This time, I’m not going to tell you the colour, got it?” John says, and Sherlock nods eagerly. He holds up a dreaded orange one. “Ready?”

“Yes,” Sherlock nods, and opens his mouth with a comical little _‘ahh!’_ sound. John drops the M &M in, and Sherlock bites down with a crunch. He stops chewing almost instantly, head tilting to the side with a frown. “This only tastes like chocolate!”

“Ah,” John says, figuring as much. Apparently he had to see the colour, or at least be able to visualise it in order for the senesthesia to be present. Very, very fascinating.

“How did you do that?” Sherlock asks, pulling off the scarf, his hair going frizzy with static. John chuckles and smoothes it down with his palm.

“Think about it for a minute and try to tell me,” he answers.

Sherlock’s gaze sharpens, and he looks at a spot on the wall over John’s shoulder. It doesn’t take very long for him to fit the pieces together.

“I can’t taste it if I don’t know what it looks like, right?” he says.

“Looks like it,” John says.

“John?”

“Yes?”

“I like science,” Sherlock says, his smile lighting up his face like a Christmas tree.

***

John didn’t realise the Pandora’s box he had opened until Sherlock was climbing one of the book shelves nearly an hour later. He just managed to catch Sherlock as the hand that was still encased in the splint slipped, and he began to arch backwards.

“Woah!” John says, setting him down on the floor. “What do you think you are doing?”

“I wanted a science book,” Sherlock says, twisting the hem of his t-shirt. John looks back to the book case, and pulls out one of the books on the shelf he was aiming for. It is an old medical tome of his on biology back from his Uni days.

“What about the ones Mrs. Hudson gave you?” John says, looking up from the dusty book.

“I’ve read them all,” Sherlock says, casting his eyes to the floor with a little grimace. “I’m bored with them.”

“You’ve read _all_ of them?” John says.

“Yes. Uhm, actually…not all of them. But I can tell they are all the same,” Sherlock sighs. He fiddles with his splint, biting his lower lip.

John looks around the flat, noticing for the first time how relatively dismal it must be for a child. There aren't any toys to speak of, aside from the few odds and ends Mrs. Hudson brought by from the local charity shop. But they are simple things like building blocks, and racecar tracks, typical for a five-year-old boy, but to Sherlock held only a novel interest at best. He would have to fix that, he thinks, and it's a good thing Christmas is just around the corner. But for now, something else would have to do.

“Hey Sherlock. How would you like to go feed some ducks?” John asks when he remembers the old bag of stale bread left in the cupboard.

“Where can we do that?” he pipes, a delighted smile breaking out on his face.

“The park. Come on, get your kit. It’s cold outside.”

* * *

‘Cold’ doesn't really describe the sudden snap London is experiencing at the moment, and John stamps his feet to keep the blood flowing as he and Sherlock stand by the small pond in Regent’s Park.

Sherlock, for his part, seems to be doing fine despite the temperature — even though his cheeks and nose are a shiny red from the air. They would have to go soon, seeing as how it is only going to get colder the more the afternoon wears on.

John’s old shoulder wound aches, and the wind is stinging his face, but he can’t bring himself to care when Sherlock giggles as he tosses another chunk of bread into the centre of a teeming group of geese. They all vie for the soggy crust at first, two of them managing to tear it apart, causing the rest to quickly give up on that piece and direct their attention back to Sherlock.

“What kind are they?” Sherlock asks as John hands him another piece of bread.

“Canadian, I think,” John says.

“Where are the England geese, then? Are they on holiday in Canada while these ones are here? What does an England goose even look like?”

John can’t help but laugh. The logic of a child would never fail to amuse him, and in all actuality, his questions are quite sound from a linear standpoint.

“It’s just the name for this type of goose, Sherlock. I think these are as English as they come,” he says.

“How can you tell?” Sherlock says, looking up at him unconvinced.

“I bet they would like tea,” John says, spying a small drinks stand a few paces away from the pond. He mumbles under his breath, “ _I_ would like some tea.”

“Can geese drink tea?” Sherlock asks, ripping off another piece of crust and throwing it into the murky water.

“I am going to find out here in a moment,” he says, making up his mind. “How about you? Would you like a hot cocoa?”

“Yes, please!” Sherlock says, wiping his nose that had begun to run a little with the back of his sleeve.

“All right. I’ll leave the rest of the bread with you. I’m just going to be right over there, okay?” John says, pointing to the stand not even thirty feet away.

“Okay,” Sherlock says, taking the bag of bread. He proceeds to twist it around making sure the opening is cinched shut before soundly pounding down onto the frozen ground. John arches an eyebrow, but decides not to comment, and makes his way over to get him and Sherlock a much needed warm-up.

John waits patiently in the queue, pulling his wallet out of his coat pocket and shooting a glance over to Sherlock. From where he’s stood, he can hear Sherlock giggle as he reaches into the bag and tosses a hand full of crumbs into the water. John smiles, and turns his attention back to the line.

“Bit cold out, eh mate?” the man in the stand says, making polite conversation.

“Oh, yeah,” John says pulling out a few bank notes. The sound of a slamming car door near by causes him to start, and he looks off to his left just in time to see the tail lights of a black Jag beat a hasty retreat.

Before John’s brain catches up with the details, his instincts are already two steps ahead of him and his eyes dart to the pond where he left Sherlock.

A shout rings out from the barista behind him, and the geese take to the air in a startled shock of flapping wings that echo strangely in John’s hollow chest. His lungs struggle to work as he registers the sight before him: gone.

Sherlock is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you all! Let me know what you thought of this chapter, and I know I left it at a terrible cliff hanger, but the good news is I hate cliffies too so it will force me to work faster on the next one. :D
> 
>  
> 
> _**Edited 03/05/16_


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to get this to you guys as quick as I was able. It looks like the updates aren't as fast as I would like them to be, but I can promise you that I won't ever abandon this story until it's finished because I just can't get away from bby!Sherlock and Papa!John. You all have been so encouraging with NL and I just can't get over how much you all mean to me. B/C of you guys this story as flourished. I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations!
> 
> xxHoney

Sherlock can’t help but notice everything whether he wants to or not. When he was younger than he is now, it was all just a jumble of faces and sounds and smells and colour that didn’t make any sense, and gave him a headache. He remembers crying a lot from it, and the only reason he remembers this is because he had to learn to stop his crying or else he would get hit, and that would make it all the worser.

But then he got a little bit older and the swirling mishmash of it all settled a bit, and he could kind of make sense of the things he saw, if only a little.

Like what it means when a man smells like lady’s perfume, or when someone wears long sleeves when it’s warm outside, or when a person smiles with their mouth, but their eyes tell a different story. Some of the stuff he still doesn’t know what to make of, but regardless, it’s always there waiting to be put together like the pieces of a puzzle.

Sherlock likes puzzles for the most part. When he lived with Mister Hope, he found one in the space under the stairs where he spent most of his time keeping away from the angry man. It was dusty in there, and packed with boxes that smelled like mildew and were chewed at the corners by mice, and in one of them there was a stack of old board games. On the bottom of the stack was a jig-saw puzzle with a picture of a cottage on the front. It was cheery, and the windows of the cottage were lit up a happy orange colour, and more than anything Sherlock wanted to put it together, spreading it out on the floor so he could admire it and pretend he was somewhere else if only for a little while.

The puzzle said it had five hundred pieces in it, but as he put it together Sherlock realised the number was actually closer to two hundred in the end. When he was finished, and there were no more pieces to be found, the cottage scene was hardly recognisable — gaps where the windows and bright red door should have been, holes in the brook meandering idyllically next to the patchy willow tree. It wasn’t complete, but Sherlock loved it, and he took it apart immediately only to fit it all back together again. 

Because, really, as long as you knew what it was supposed to look like, it wasn’t that hard to fill in the spaces. That’s what it’s like in Sherlock’s head most of the time. He’s given some of the pieces, and it’s only when he fits them in place that he can see the big picture.

That’s why when the jogger with the white and blue trainers runs past him for the third time, and the sleek black car pulls up along the kerb, Sherlock jumps off the slight ledge he was standing on and into the pond. 

Because the man that’s been sitting on the bench across from him is like that puzzle. He’s missing pieces, but he keeps staring at Sherlock for a long time now, his fingers tugging at the cuffs of his shirt and checking his phone, but not actually waiting for someone to meet him. And when John goes to go get drinks with his back turned, the man stands up and it’s like the picture comes into view. And the picture says _DANGER_ in bright red, enormous letters.

So Sherlock times it, and jumps.

The water is really cold, and the geese shoot up into the air honking and squawking angrily, scaring him, and he doesn’t have enough time to take a very big breath before his head slips under the water.

In hindsight the pond didn’t look that deep, and he thought — he _thought_ he could just push off the bottom, but the pond is _really_ deep and his clothes gets all waterlogged making it hard to kick his feet. He gets water in his nose and mouth, and it burns making him panic, which causes him to inhale. Which is really bad, and a mistake because it tastes horrible, and he can’t reach the surface, and it’s like the dream with the swimming pool all over again.

His head breaks the surface for a moment, and he splutters, drawing a lungful of air.

“Joh —!” he tries, but is pulled back under again, arms and legs flailing.

Before he can inhale another lungful of the awful pond water, a firm arm wraps itself around his waist and drags him to the surface, and at first he struggles thinking it was all for nothing and the man on the bench got to him anyway.

“Hey there! Stop fightin’ me, champ. I’ve got you, you’re all right now,” comes a kind voice, and Sherlock is suddenly being buoyed against a strong chest as he is carted through the water in an even keel. The sun is really bright as he looks upwards into the grey sky, and he shuts his eyes with a whimper, impossibly disorientated.

 _“Christ! Sherlock!”_ John’s voice rings out, frantic, and Sherlock thinks that maybe this plan wasn't a good one after all. But before he can say anything, he is suddenly being lifted from one set of arms into another, and hauled over John’s shoulder to be pounded ruthlessly between the shoulder blades. 

A gurgling cough scrapes up his throat, and John immediately flips him so he is stomach first over one of John’s knees so the slew of scummy water can drain out of his nose and mouth.

“ _There_ you go,” John says, a little relief seeping into his voice. The hand is still roughly patting his back, but it is less hard than before. Sherlock retches all the same, however, his eyes stinging. “That’s right. Get it all out, Bones.”

Sherlock takes a shuddering gasp of cold air, and continues to cough wetly. The shock starts to catch up with him, and hot tears streak down his face unbidden as if the pond water is trying to escape from there too.

“John!” he gasps once he can take a decent breath, and John strips him out of his soaked coat before unzipping his own jacket and shoving Sherlock inside. “There was a man, John. A man,” he mumbles into the thick cable-knit wool of John’s jumper as the jacket is being wrapped firmly around him.

“God,” John says, not having heard Sherlock, and he only grips him tighter to his chest. He falls backwards out of his kneeling crouch onto the ground, simply clutching Sherlock to him as if he would vanish. “God, Sherlock. You _scared_ me.”

“M’sorry,” he says, beginning to shake.

“Do I need to call an ambulance?” a woman with bright red hair says, and Sherlock peers out warily from John’s collar. He notices there is a small crowd of people around them, all with anxious faces and mobile phones, but there is no sign of the man on the bench, and for that Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief.

“No, that’s all right. I’m a doctor,” John says.

“Is he okay?” A boy with a mop of drenched blond curls asks, his brow furrowing. Sherlock realises this is the jogger with the blue and white trainers who saved him from drowning in the pond.

“Yes. Because of you, he should be fine. _God,”_ he says again, and pulls Sherlock away from him so he could look into his face one more time. He grips Sherlock’s chin and tilts his head from side to side, face pale and deeply lined with concern. He brushes some of Sherlock’s fringe back, and Sherlock feels his jaw tremble with shame at making John worry so much. But there was a bad man coming to get him and he didn’t have a choice. If only he was smarter then maybe —

“Hey, hey,” John soothes, gathering him against his chest again and into the warmth under his jacket. He didn’t realise he was cold until now, and the tremors wrack his frame. “It’s all right. I’ve got you now.” He turns to the boy, “I just need to get him home; get him warmed up.”

“Yeah,” the boy says, and helps John to his feet.

“What’s your name?” John asks. “You ought to get out of this cold, too.”

“Name’s Carl, sir. Carl Powers,” the boy says, handing Sherlock’s discarded jacket to John. “I’ll be all right. A good cool down for me,” he jokes.

“Well, Carl. I am awfully grateful. If you hadn’t stepped in when you did…”

“No worries, mate. I’m training to be a lifeguard, so it was good to know I can keep me head in a crisis, if you know what I mean.”

“Too right. Listen, I don’t have a car or I would give you a lift, but the least I can do is pay for cab fare where ever you’re headed.”

“Not necessary, sir. I’m just glad the little bugger’s all right,” Carl says. “I’m staying with me aunt, and she don’t live far.”

“Okay, well thank you again, Carl.” He shakes his hand. “Truly.”

“You’re very welcome,” Carl says, and he smiles at Sherlock before ruffling his hair. “You be careful in the future, all right?”

“Th-thank you,” Sherlock says, trying to return his smile. He shivers again, and John presses him even harder to his chest as he sets off at a brisk pace. Sherlock watches Carl from over John’s shoulder as the boy sets about putting on his trainers. When he straightens, he waves at Sherlock before breaking out in a jog once more, and Sherlock waves back. He pulls his arm back into the cocoon of John’s embrace as the frigid air makes him shudder all over.

Sherlock is starting to get really, really cold. More cold than he’s ever been before, and it kind of started to hurt a little bit. He buries his face into the curve of John’s neck, trying to smother his chattering teeth.

“I know, Sherlock,” John murmurs, his hand coming up to cradle the back of his head. A moment later he calls out, “Taxi!” only to have the black cab speed past them. John mutters a curse under his breath, and tries again, sticking his hand in the air to no avail.

Sherlock closes his eyes as he begins to shiver even harder. “C-cold.”

“Shit. I know,” John says. Another cab cruises around the corner, but doesn’t slow regardless of John’s frantic waving. “Oh come on! I’ve got a child here! Wanker!” 

John grumbles angrily, and hefts Sherlock up into his arms a little more so he could keep him as snug as possible. He sets off walking at a brisk pace, and Sherlock shuts his eyes trying not to think about how frozen he is. He feels John tense slightly and pick up the pace, and when he looks up from his shelter under John’s chin, he sees a shiny black car following them. The window rolls down, and he catches a glimpse of a man in a nice suit, before he turns his face into John’s neck again.

“Doctor Watson!”

“You can piss right off, you bastard,” John says, walking even faster.

“Do be reasonable,” the man from the car says. His voice is like melted butter, and he’s smiling at Sherlock. “It’s at least another fifteen minutes back to Baker Street. Think of Sherlock.”

Sherlock looks up at John, startled that this man knows his name. John stops mid-stride, a muscle in his jaw jumping. Sherlock would rather not get in the car with the man, but before he can voice this opinion, he trembles involuntarily again. John makes up his mind and slips them both into the car, the door shutting and sealing them in a pocket of heat away from the autumn air. It stings Sherlock’s cheeks, but he feels immediately better.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” the man says, too-wide smile curving beneath his hooked nose. He looks at Sherlock like a hawk would, and Sherlock anxiously fists a hand in John’s jumper. “There are wool blankets under the seat, Doctor Watson.”

John lets out a tight sigh, and pulls one out from underneath them. He takes Sherlock out from under his jacket, and pulls the sodden jumper Sherlock was wearing over his head before swiftly bundling him up in the orange blanket. It’s scratchy against his skin, but it’s warm so he snuggles into it even deeper when John folds him securely in his arms again.

Sherlock peers out at the man, brushing his lips over the blanket’s hem in thought.

“You’re quite welcome,” the man says, a bit uncharitably. “It was no trouble.”

John gives another sigh that sounds more like a growl deep in his chest, and he grits out a strained, _“Thank you,”_ the contempt evident in his tone. It’s clear he doesn’t like the man, and so Sherlock decides he doesn’t either, his eyes narrowing suspiciously of their own accord.

The man notices this, and his smile turns a half a shade colder than it was before.

“My, my. He does seem very loyal, very quickly. Of course, anyone can brainwash a child.”

“Would you get over yourself, Mycroft. He doesn’t even know who you are, Christ,” John says. “I’m not about to fill his head with preconceived notions when he is perfectly capable of forming his own opinions.”

Sherlock doesn’t know what’s going on really, but he knows he likes the man named Mycroft even less now.

“You haven’t told him about me?” Mycroft says, arching a thin eyebrow. Sherlock frowns and looks up at John.

“We’ve been a little busy,” John says tersely, glancing down at him for a moment.

Mycroft smirks bitterly and leans back in his seat. “Of course you have. All in due time, I suppose.”

“What are you even doing here?” John bites, nearing the end of his patience.

“Are you suggesting my services are unwarranted? Because to some that would seem ungrateful,” he says placidly.

“You call spying a service?” John says.

“When I am dealing with an incompetent, I do,” says Mycroft, something flashing dangerously in his eyes for a moment before he resumes his neutral mask of indifference.

“Unbelievable,” John scoffs.

“Tell me, is leaving four-year-old alone next to a sizable body of water a special form of idiocy, or do you lack all forms of common sense?”

John stiffens, and Sherlock holds his breath. He can practically feel the anger thrumming through him, and for a second he feels bad for the man sitting across from them. But only for a second.

John laughs a laugh without humour which is somehow scarier than any yelling he could have done. “No. I see what you’re doing, and it won’t work.”

“Oh?” says Mycroft.

“After all you’ve done — bribes and your cars and CCTV — what makes you think I will respond any differently to your threats? If anything it just solidifies my decision; you are absolutely the last person Sherlock needs in his life.”

Sherlock frowns again, and looks at Mycroft in confusion. Who _is_ this man? And why were they arguing about him? 

“Yes, well. You may think that, but there may not be people who agree with you when this is all said and done,” Mycroft says, and pulls out a silver briefcase from the floor. He sets it on his lap, and snicks open the latches in one swift motion. He takes out a pristine manila envelope, and hands it to John with a snap of his wrist.

“What is this?” John says, taking the envelope.

“That means you have just been officially served, Doctor Watson,” he says, fishing his pocket watch out of his waistcoat. He eyes it, and clicks it shut, the glint of the metal shining as cold as his eyes.

“Served?” John says incredulously, his voice cutting with anger.

“A contention of custody, to be precise.”

“You are your own solicitor, then?” John accuses. The car rolls to a stop next to the kerb, and Sherlock can see the door to their flat. He doesn’t want anything more than to get out of this car and away from this man in the expensive suit, but John remains where he is, the arm around his waist tightening slightly.

“One does try to economise,” says Mycroft. “In there you will find the carbon copy of the petition I have requested as well as any and all relevant documentation I have deemed fit.”

“Why are you giving it to me?”

“So you can see what you are up against. And to remind you that there is an easier and more peaceful solution if you would only accept what is, and concede.”

“Anything worth fighting for is never given up so freely in the face of an opposing force.”

“Spoken like a true soldier,” Mycroft says, sneering a little. Sherlock decides he doesn’t like his face.

“Are we free to leave, now?” John says.

Mycroft regards him with a calculating look before those sharp eyes light on Sherlock. The intensity of his gaze makes Sherlock’s shivers start up again, and he trains his eyes on the floor.

“Until next time, Doctor Watson,” comes the reply, followed by the sound of an electric door lock. 

John doesn’t say anything else. He just hefts Sherlock closer to him and climbs out of the car.

He gets one last glimpse of the strange man staring at him before the automatic window rolls back up, and the car and the street disappear behind the familiar black door of 221B.

John locks the deadbolt with a snap, staring down at his fingers still on the brass lock, a hard look in his eye. It is a fearsome look, and Sherlock can’t help the sinking sensation in his gut. It was John’s Angry Look, he knew, but Sherlock has never seen him look _this_ angry before. He shouldn’t have jumped in the lake. He made everything worser by doing so, and he should have just been smart enough to come up with a different solution.

Not knowing how to fix it, Sherlock tentatively calls John’s name, but his apology dries up in his throat when John closes his eyes for a moment. He bites his lip as another shudder rolls through him.

“Right. _Oh_ …I’m sorry Sherlock, let’s get you warmed up,” John says, snapping back from where ever he went inside his head. His face remains haunted, though, and it just makes Sherlock’s tummy feel all swimmy again. He blames himself for putting that look on John’s face.

They ascend the steps in silence, John still stony and deep in thought.

Sherlock doesn’t even ask for bubbles for his bath because he doesn’t deserve them, and he doesn’t ask for his toys to play with either. He just sits quietly in the warm water as John rubs shampoo that smells like blueberries into his hair, single-minded in his task. It isn’t until John is cupping his chin to hold his head back as he rinses out the suds that he finally breaks the silence.

“Sherlock? Love, are you still cold? You’re shaking,” he says, concern etching his face even deeper. He tilts Sherlock’s head to get a good look into his eyes, and Sherlock doesn’t want to look at him anymore, so he tucks his chin back under and covers his face with his hands.

“I’m sorry, John,” he says, voice muffled. “I shouldn’t have — but there was a man, and you weren’t looking and I didn’t know what else to do and —”

“Sherlock, hey. Look at me.” Sherlock lifts his head, eyes prickling with tears. “What man? What are you talking about?” 

“The man,” he says, tears trickling down his face. “The man at the park.” He wills himself to stop crying, and he bites his lip again. “I got scared.”

John frowns and brushes Sherlock’s fringe back before pulling the stopper out of the tub. He gets Sherlock to stand, and dries him off with a big fluffy towel. He wraps it around him snugly, and lifts Sherlock up into his arms, fingers combing back through his hair as he sighs long and weary. Sherlock pretends it’s almost like forgiveness and buries his face in the side of John’s neck as they make their way up the stairs.

His room is cold and remote and he doesn’t like staying in here by himself, so when John goes to set him on the bed, Sherlock only clings to him harder.

“Sherlock,” John whispers patiently. “Come on, sweetheart, we’ve got to get you dressed.”

“I don’t want to go to sleep,” Sherlock murmurs, still hiding himself under John’s jaw.

“It’s getting late. You know bedtime is at eight, and we’ve passed that already. It’s been a rough day, yeah?” he asks, coaxing Sherlock to look at him, warm fingers gently guiding his chin upwards. Sherlock blinks at him, lids heavy despite himself. “There you are.” John rewards him with a sad, small smile, and goes about gathering his pyjamas with one hand as he continues to hold Sherlock securely against him.

He does set Sherlock down then, removing the towel and having him step first into a pair of clean underwear, and then next into a pair of his fuzzy footsie pyjamas. They have rocketships and planets on them, and feel really nice against his skin, and when John zips them up he feels warm and safe and suddenly, very tired.

He yawns, and presses a palm into his eye, rubbing it absently before holding up both arms in a silent plea to be held again.

John smiles and gathers him up in his arms, planting a kiss on the top of his head as he lays it against John’s chest.

“Don’t wanna go asleep, John,” he mumbles.

“I know,” John says. He goes over to the bed and grabs Geoffrey from atop the pillow before leaving the bedroom. Sherlock takes the bumblebee from him, and presses his furry head to his face. His yellow fur is starting to smell like John and the flat, the stale cigar smell finally fading into tea and honey and lavender.

John sets him down in the red armchair, a warm hand lingering on his head before he goes into the kitchen.

Sherlock hugs Geoffrey to him, drawing his knees up to his chest as he listens to John turn on the stove with a click. He lays his cheek against his kneecaps, and blinks drowsily into the fireplace where a small fire flickers behind the protective grate. He doesn’t even realise he’s closed his eyes until John picks him up and settles him in his lap. Sherlock yawns again, pressing his ear to John’s chest so he can hear his steady heartbeat.

They sit there for a minute, John sipping his tea and Sherlock counting the strong _thumpa-thumpas_ beneath the soft clean jumper John must have changed into. Finally, John sets his mug on the table next to them and clears his throat.

“Sherlock,” he starts, and Sherlock stiffens. “I need you to tell me why you jumped in the lake. Don’t leave anything out; I won’t be angry.”

Sherlock takes a big breath. “I got scared…” he says.

“What were you scared of, love?”

“The – the man. He was there across from us on the bench. He kept looking over at us and checking his watch.”

“What did he look like?”

“Um…he was tall? And wore nice clothes. He had a mean face, and when you went to go get drinks his face got even meaner and he started walking towards me and I got scared,” he says again, voice quavering.

“But why did you jump?” John asks, but it isn’t condescending.

“Because of the boy.”

“The boy? Carl?” John leads.

“Yes. I could tell he was a good swimmer because his jumper said Swim Cap-tan, and so I waited for him to get close so he could see me when I jumped.”

“You wanted to warn the man off. And you did that by drawing as much attention to yourself as you could,” John says with a little laugh.

Sherlock nods, uncertain. “Was that bad?”

“No. That was incredibly smart of you,” John says quietly, and something warm blooms in Sherlock’s chest. “I — I’m sorry, Sherlock. You shouldn’t have had to do that. I should have been there…should have been looking out for you.”

Sherlock looks up at John, astonished. John’s not looking at him, though. He’s looking past him, and his eyes look so sad. He puts his hands on John’s stubbly cheeks, and moves his face so he’s not staring into nothing anymore.

“You _do,”_ he insists. “Always you do, John. You look out for me.”

John gives him another sad smile, and Sherlock doesn’t like it. It’s different than the sunny ones that always look so at home on John’s face. He wraps his arms around John’s neck and hugs him because he doesn’t know what else to do in order to make the sad smile go away.

“Sherlock…” John whispers, and Sherlock waits holding his breath. “If you could be happier living with someone else — if you could be happier than you ever could living with me — would you want to?”

Sherlock tightens his grip. “No.”

“But if there was someone else that could keep you safe —”

“No. _No,”_ Sherlock says again, shaking his head fiercely. “No one else, John. Please don’t send me away.”

John sighs, and the stiff arms that were holding him finally relax, and he cards a hand through Sherlock curls once more. “ _Never._ I will never send you away. All right? As long as you want to be here. I promise, I will look after you.”

“For always?” Sherlock asks, pulling away and putting his hands back on John’s cheeks. John smiles again, but this time it looks more like his usual smiles.

“For always and ever,” he says. And Sherlock believes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For updates check out my tumblr [here](http://oleanderhoney.tumblr.com/) for the latest and greatest. Oh and I had someone ask me if I would be willing to give permission for ppl to do art and podfics and such for this story if anyone would happen to be interested in the future, and I figured I would just go ahead and say this now: PERMISSION GRANTED.
> 
> So...in light of that here is this podfic! [Not Leaving - A Kid!lock Sherlock Fanfiction Part 1](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b4stpzPctmg)
> 
> **Edited 18/07/2016
> 
> Comment and give this wonderful person love! 
> 
> You all are wonderful. *smooch*


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you guys sick of me apologising for taking forever to update yet? If not, here is another apology. Summers are crazy, what can I say? And I started a new job so that's good because: money. But not the best when it comes to free time. Anyways! I hope you guys like this chapter. I worked hard on it every time I had a chance. You all are amazing and wonderful. 
> 
> xxHoney

John sips the last of his cold tea and watches the fire burn down to its embers. He sighs, putting his RAMC mug on the small table next to him, and looks down at Sherlock nestled in his lap. 

He fell asleep ages ago, his toy bumblebee sandwiched between him and the boy’s chest as his head lolls in the crook of John’s arm. He’s unconsciously holding his right hand tucked close to himself, and John frets at the loss of the splint. His fracture was healing nicely, but it would be sore for a while yet, not to mention fragile. They would have to get a new one tomorrow when they stopped by the hospital. For now, one night wouldn’t harm anything, and John makes a note to wrap it in an elastic bandage come morning.

The list he was compiling helped quell the roaring in his head. He always felt better when he had a task that needed to be accomplished. It helped him from going off the rails when he felt like the world around him was slipping from his stoic control. He needed to call Lestrade in a moment, inform him that someone (earlier insufferable company excluded) was stalking them. To think Sherlock could have very well been snatched back into the hands of the people who hurt him is enough to make the tea in John’s gut turn sour. 

Sherlock nuzzles closer and subconsciously tucks his middle two fingers into his mouth, his brow furrowing in sleep. John brings his thumb up and smoothes the faint creases of worry, his heart pounding with a mixture of heartache and guilt. He should have _been there_ — shouldn’t have let him out of his sight even for a moment. Sherlock was so smart and independent it was easy to forget he was so young because he was so capable. And then that bloody Mycroft dogging his steps like a blood hound, just waiting for him to sod everything up. He was probably compiling evidence this very moment on John’s ineptitude as a guardian that he could sing to the courts, and with his affluence and resources…well. Did John stand any sort of chance? 

He pinches the bridge of his nose in attempt to ward off a tension headache, and breathes out. He was drowning in the mire of doubt again, and he had to keep it together. One step at a time. And the first step was putting his exhausted little boy to bed.

Carefully, John lifts Sherlock up into his arms and makes his way back to his own bedroom. Today was a rough day, and John figured one night in his bed wouldn’t do much harm. Chances are if Sherlock were to wake up in his room, he would only crawl right back into John’s anyhow. He was tenacious that way.

John settles Sherlock under the thick duvet, smirking when he immediately flops on his belly like a fish, stretching his legs out and making himself right at home with his stuffed toy tucked soundly under his chin. It was likely he would migrate to the dead centre of the bed before long, and John rues the lack of sleep he knows he’s going to get with his clingy little bedfellow. He stoops and drops a kiss on his forehead, sighing with exasperated fondness when Sherlock snuffles and turns over.

John reaches a hand out to smooth over Sherlock’s back, when he is suddenly stricken with visions of an empty bed, a devoid flat, and that dreadful gaping maw of _ineptitude_ which had ensnared him all those months ago. 

_God. He cannot lose this._

It’s enough to suck the air out of his lungs and he snatches his hand back, the idea of breaching the distance suddenly and intensely painful. He wipes that hand down his face instead, and makes his way back out into the quiet sitting room.

He looks around, eyes lighting over the little bits of evidence left behind — colourful toy blocks, picture books, broken crayons — items that a mere week and a half ago didn’t belong in his life. Just picturing their absence now is enough to make John’s throat tighten, and his heart beat faster.

John sits heavily in his chair, and rests his head in his hands, allowing his elbows to press into his thighs a little too hard to be considered comfortable. Not for the first time, he wonders about his intense attachment to Sherlock, and a small voice in the back of his mind registers that it is perhaps a little more than unusual. He realised the moment he couldn’t make it work with Sarah of all people, that he wasn’t cut out for the domestic picket-fence life after all. So, where in the hell did this fierce paternal streak even come from?

Perhaps a shrink would say John recognised himself whenever he looked at Sherlock. Perhaps they would be right.

But, John knows the truth is not so textbook or cliché. No…the real explanation of the strength of his feelings lies within the fact that from the moment he set eyes on Sherlock, something broken and barely limping along inside of him was wholly, and miraculously fixed. The lack of that hateful cane was testament enough, if one were to require proof.

Maybe it was his nature to be relied upon — to rescue. It started with the need to shield his mother and sister from the cruelty of his own father, which later translated into a doctor and then a soldier, until helping people was synonymous to breathing. When he came back, he damn near forgot how to function, the phantom pain setting up camp in his otherwise perfectly fine leg a constant reminder of his purposelessness. He was circling long before he found Sherlock. He just didn’t realise how deep.

That might be the crux of the problem, John notes, hands dropping to hang heavily between his knees. 

He was being selfish. 

It was one thing to save Sherlock from the deplorable circumstances he was living in — after all it was any Good Samaritan’s prerogative. No one with a decent bone in their body could have walked away from that. But now, one could argue that he had fulfilled his civil duty. Any court of law is more prone to side with a child’s next of kin, and now that a blood relative has come forward to claim custody, it would only be good decorum to step aside, content in the knowledge that he had done more than enough to secure Sherlock’s well-being.

Besides, what can he possibly offer Sherlock that Mycroft couldn’t? He isn’t a wealthy man. In fact he was barely making ends meet as it was before Sherlock came into the picture. He doesn’t have influence, a family legacy, culture…anything. He’s just John Watson. All he has to give is what? Love? An abundance of it surely, but is it enough?

An image of Sherlock’s trusting face swims into his vision. The feeling of his little arms wrapping around his neck comes next, and John has to physically shake himself so he can get a grip. He really couldn’t afford to think about all of this right now. What mattered was figuring out just what in the hell happened at the park today. With a sigh, John rubs the back of his neck, and pulls himself to his feet. He gives in to the restless need to pace the floor a few times before he snatches his mobile off the coffee table, dialing Inspector Lestrade’s number.

The man picks up on the third ring with a formally brusque greeting.

_“Lestrade.”_

“Yes, Inspector. This is Dr. John Watson.”

_“Yes, I remember. Everything all right?”_

“No, actually,” John says, pacing the floor again. “We’ve had a little incident…”

* * *

By the time John finishes detailing the events that transpired with Sherlock and his near-abductor, John is at his wits end, and practically dead on his feet.

He shuffles back towards his bedroom after turning off the lights and stirring the embers, and remembers his little bed octopus tangled up in the ocean of bedclothes. The only thing visible is his tuft of unruly black curls peeking out from the top of the coverlet. John feels a warm twinge in the vicinity of his heart, and leans over Sherlock, gently manouvreing him to the side of the bed furthest from the door. He's utterly dead to the world, and given all the excitement he's had today, it's not a wonder.

John dresses down to his boxers and undershirt, not having the patience to fumble for his pyjamas in the dark, and slides under the covers next to the warm, sleepy mass snoring gently beside him. He is asleep within moments.

That night the nightmares, which had been blessedly absent since Sherlock came to live with him, returned with a vengeance.

He jolts awake, trembling, face clammy with sweat and drying tears, the residual sound of a woman screaming in terrified Pashto ringing in his ears.

 _"Please!"_ she begged in his memory — for that's what the dream was, John realises. _"You are a doctor. Help my son! Help my son!"_

But there was nothing he could do for him, the young man having succumbed to the shrapnel wound in his abdomen before they arrived. Even if he had still been alive when John and his company passed through the small village, there wouldn't have been much else he could do for the lad besides make him comfortable.

The screams of that woman, though. He doesn’t think he will ever forget them.

He swipes a hand over his face, and stares blankly into the greyness. It's much too early to be awake, London still slumbering outside the walls of his bedroom. John knows he won't be able to fall back asleep despite how weary he is. He pulls a deep breath into his lungs, holding it before letting his chest deflate in attempt to slow his racing heart.

Just then, a small hand smacks him in the centre of his chest, startling him out of his reverie and effectively dragging him back into the present. He turns his head, and practically gets a face full of curls for his trouble.

Sherlock, at least, was sleeping peacefully. Which was a relief, all things considered. He nearly forgot the little boy was in his bed tonight, and says a silent prayer of thanks to whoever may be listening that this time it wasn't a night terror. Even though he hasn’t had one of those for quite some time, he shivers to think of what could have happened if his nightmares turned violent.

As if subconsciously sensing John’s distress, Sherlock burrows in closer while managing to shimmy under the blankets until his head is eclipsed from view. John chuckles softly, lifting the duvet so he could check on his little hobbit. He can’t really see, but from what he can tell, Sherlock’s face is pressed into John’s side and his uninjured fist is wrapped in John’s shirt. He doesn’t know how that can possibly be comfortable, but the contented little huffs of breath speak otherwise, so John lowers the blankets.

“Strange child,” he whispers fondly, his hand resting on Sherlock’s back. Surprisingly, John feels himself relaxing again, his mind quieting as he counts the deep rise and fall of Sherlock’s breathing. He lets go of his doubt and anxiety at least for the remainder of the night, his eyes slipping shut once more.

* * *

The day was a muted grey and bitterly cold causing John’s shoulder to ache even before they left the flat. Sherlock insisted on having his blue scarf with him even though it was overdue for a wash. When John tried to explain this to him, however, Sherlock wasn’t having it, his cheeks flushing with anxiety at the mere thought of leaving it behind. John didn’t think too much of it, until they had to double back because Sherlock forgot his stuffed bumblebee, dissolving into tears when John attempted to coax him to go without so they could try and catch the Tube.

“I’m sorry we missed the train, John,” Sherlock mumbles sadly. 

They are currently sitting in a taxi, Sherlock facing him on John’s lap as he fiddles with the bumblebee’s floppy wings. John’s arms are encircling him, and he gives Sherlock an encouraging squeeze. This was progress, considering for the first half of the ride Sherlock had his face buried in John’s jumper, and refused to come out. It's with no small measure of guilt when John realises Sherlock is anxious and scared beyond his realm of coping from the events that transpired yesterday. So if a mangy scarf and a stuffed toy were what Sherlock needed to feel safe…well. What was a little extra in cab fare?

“Ah, that’s okay. The Tube is smelly, anyhow. Smells like feet,” John says trying to cheer him up. “Smells like _your_ feet.” Sherlock purses his lips, trying not to smile, and John considers it a minor success. “Smells like feet, and boiled cabbage, and gopher guts.”

Sherlock looks up at him. “Gopher guts?”

“Mmhm. Slimy ones.”

“Ew-w!” Sherlock says, but his small smile says otherwise.

“Yep. The whole London Underground is run by trolls, and trolls are very smelly.”

“John,” Sherlock says, trying not to giggle. “there are no such things as _trolls.”_

“And how would you know? Have you ever met one?” John challenges.

“No,” Sherlock says frowning.

“Then for all you know, _you_ could be a troll.”

“John!” Sherlock says, finally giving in to a little bit of laughter. “I’m not a troll!”

“Yes, yes, you could be,” John says with mock-seriousness. “I could be a troll, too. Who knows?”

Sherlock smiles, and puts a finger up to his chin, tapping as if in contemplation. “I don’t think I mind being a troll if you’re one, too.”

“Yeah?” John says, bouncing Sherlock on his knees a little.

“Yeah. We can be the troll family,” he decides.

John’s eyebrows rise slightly at this. _Family._ The simplicity with which Sherlock says this causes John’s throat to tighten.

“You bet,” he says, trying his best to quash the sudden doubt that wells up at the image of Mycroft Holmes’s looming shadow. Sherlock give a little hum, eyes drifting down to the toy in his lap once more. John notices the dark circles under his eyes and assesses him a moment, shoving aside his own lingering worries. “You okay, kiddo?”

“Mmhm,” Sherlock says. He doesn’t look up, though, and after a moment curls against John’s chest again, fist clutching his jumper. John sighs, and cups the back of his head holding him close, taking a bit of comfort for himself as the cab drives on.

When they finally pull up in front of St. Bart’s, Sherlock is asleep.

“Sherlock,” John says. “Time to wake up; we’re here.”

Sherlock jolts awake, panicked at first until John soothes him by tucking the scarf more securely around his neck. He pays the cabbie, and climbs out of the taxi with his arms full of a Sherlock who was supremely disinterested in walking apparently, and decides that their first stop would be getting Sherlock’s arm sorted. Chances are, Michelle was still tired from her aneurysm procedure, and their well-wishing could keep for a little while longer.

While they are waiting for the elevator to take them up to paeds, however, Sherlock tugs on John’s sleeve and points to the gift shop. In the shop window there sits a modest bouquet of wildflowers, with a _‘Get Well Soon’_ card pinioned in the centre of the cheery blooms.

“Mrs. Husdon says flowers are a good way of cheering people up. She got some from Mr. Chatterjee the other day because he was apologising for having to cancel their date even though he was really seeing his wife instead,” Sherlock says before clapping a hand over his mouth, eyes wide and guilty.

John blinks at him, astonished. Sherlock’s deductions would never cease to amaze him, he was sure. “Sherlock…does Mrs. Hudson know about Mr. Chatterjee’s wife?”

“No. I told myself I wasn’t going to say anything because sometimes she gets sad about Mr. Chatterjee, and I think this will make her even sadder. I don’t like making Mrs. Husdon sad,” he says softly.

John sighs. “No, I don’t like making her sad either. Maybe we will keep this between us for the time being, hm?”

“Okay,” Sherlock says, nodding fiercely.

“But in the meantime, I think flowers are a wonderful idea,” John says, and Sherlock positively beams at him, perking up a little much to John’s relief. In his enthusiasm, John even lets him pick out a stuffed animal, and after searching for something other than the generic teddy bears that Sherlock deemed too boring, they settle on, of all things, a plush hedgehog.

“His name is Mike because of his stef-o-cope,” Sherlock says, tugging on said stethoscope before hugging the fuzzy hedgehog close to his chest along with his bumblebee. John laughs, and the clerk lets him hold it while she rings them out, a soft smile on her lips.

Sherlock was much too excited after that and wanted to deliver the presents he picked out straight away, his right hand squeezing John’s despite any discomfort he may have still been feeling in his arm. They make their way past A&E, and down the corridor that leads to recovery, Sherlock trying his hardest not to get too far ahead of himself. One of his shoes is untied, aglets clicking along the linoleum with every eager step.

“We have to be quiet in case she’s still asleep,” John says as they stop outside her door.

“But…” Sherlock says, looking between the flowers and the hedgehog with a crestfallen expression. “If she’s asleep, how will she know it’s from us?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” comes jovial voice from behind them. John turns at the sound and finds Stamford with a paper bag, and a warm, if not tired smile. “She’s been up for the past three hours complaining about hospital food. How’s the arm, Sherlock?”

“Good. Thank you Dr. Stamford,” Sherlock says shyly, leaving the ‘t’ inadvertently out of his name so it ends up sounding like _Sam-ford._ He grips onto John’s trouser leg, pressing against him.

“We were actually going to make a stop by your office for one last check-up, and perhaps a new brace. Ours ended up getting lost.”

“Ah. Well, Michelle will love to see you, please come in, come in,” Mike says, opening the door for them.

“Mike?” comes Michelle’s voice from behind the privacy curtain. “Did you make sure to get the pastrami I like?”

“Of course I did, love. Also brought along some friends while I was at it,” he says, drawing back the drape.

Michelle sits propped up, thick gauze around her head, looking no worse for the wear aside from post-op swelling and bruising.

“John! Oh my goodness, I didn’t know you and Sherlock were coming by,” she says. “You brought flowers.”

“Of course we came by,” John says, setting the flowers on the table next to her. “These were Sherlock’s idea.” Michelle smiles, and John lifts him up so he could sit on the edge of the bed.

“Are they?” Michelle asks. Sherlock nods, not meeting her eyes. He holds out the hedgehog instead.

“He also picked this little fella out for you as well,” John prompts when Sherlock doesn’t say anything.

“This is wonderful! Thank you, sweetheart,” she says, settling the hedgehog beside her. “He’ll be perfect at keeping me company during the night.”

Sherlock nods and shuffles closer, sitting on his knees with hands folded in his lap. “His name is Mike because of his stef-o-cope,” he says quietly. Stamford who was busy unwrapping a sandwich, chuckles robustly, drawing a hesitant smile from Sherlock.

“That’s very clever of you,” Michelle says laughing as well.

“Your head is better?” Sherlock asks after a moment. He leans forward a bit and just barely brushes his fingertips over the gauze against the side of her head. She catches his hand when he begins to lower it, and kisses his knuckles, causing him to giggle.

“Yes, much better,” she says, her smile fading slightly. She shares a look with John, and he in turn glances at her husband. Stamford tightens his jaw slightly, but nods before setting a plastic cup of water down next to the prepared lunch.

“I’m going to go see about that dressing for your boy’s arm,” he says a little gruffly, and without anything other than a strained smile, he exits the room.

Michelle sighs. “He’s still mad at me for not telling him sooner.”

“It’s understandable.” John tries to say it with some modicum of delicacy, but he doesn’t quite manage to smooth all of the hard edges that have crept in involuntarily. After all, Mike wasn’t the only one who had worried about her. He clears his throat, and tries again. “I am glad you did, though, Mich.”

“I am too,” she says, breathing out steadily as she blinks away the moisture in her eyes. She kisses Sherlock one more time on his cheek, and John helps him hop off the bed so he could put the hedgehog next to the flowers.

“Are things…going well for you two, besides?” John asks.

“We’ve decided to see someone; a counselor,” she confirms, and John nods. “What about you? Have you found anyone yet like we talked about?”

“Er, no. I haven’t,” John says shifting awkwardly where he stands.

“John,” she admonishes. “It’s important. And in this case, quite necessary.”

“Ta, for that.”

“Don’t be that way, you know what I mean. You didn’t exactly have a rosy childhood, and now with this contention of custody, well. You know this Holmes is going to use anything as fodder against you.”

“Ah, so you know about that, then,” John says, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Of course I do. I’m Sherlock’s social worker.”

John gives a lengthy sigh. He lowers his voice. “You’ve seen stuff like this all the time. Tell me the truth: do I even have a chance?”

“You have a chance if you quit being a stubborn arse and listen to me,” Michelle says.

“No, I’m serious. Holmes is next of kin and I…I’m just—”

“If you say ‘nobody’ I am going to beat you,” she says, shaking her head. “Look. It is true courts will want to try and keep as much of the original family unit intact when it comes to the child’s emotional well-being. But according to you, Holmes wasn’t even aware of Sherlock’s existence until recently. Until _after_ you had been made his primary guardian. From an objective standpoint, he’s just as much a stranger to the boy as you are. Even more so.”

“Yeah, but, you don’t know this guy. He’s a government type; one of the higher-ups. I’ve seen him alter permanent records, for chrissakes.”

“I don’t care if he’s the bloody Queen, I am not going to let some stuffy bureaucrat hustle me when it comes to the system. I’ve seen it all, and I have practise in laying some serious red tape from here all the way to Wales if I wanted. You forget, I went to school at first to be a solicitor, John. I can shuffle paperwork with some of the best.”

John chuckles, allowing himself to be optimistic for once in light of her tenacity. “My god. You can be quite frightening, do you know that?”

“I do,” she grins, and they both laugh. She grabs his hand, sobering. “Really, John. You might think the past is in the past, but if you haven’t aired it out, it will only fester and explode. This is more than my profession opinion. You sometimes forget I was there; I was the one whose house you ran to in the middle of the night when you were scared and hurting. And then when we got older, I watched as you turned callous and distant.”

“That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing,” John says, dully, remembering all the times it was necessary to disconnect from certain situations. Often times it was about pure survival in the end.

“You didn’t even cry at the funeral,” she says in a hushed voice as if she hates herself for bringing it up. And in that moment, John hates her a little bit, too. He pulls his hand out of hers.

“You expected me to grieve him? _Him_ of all people?” he says, voice incredulous and low.

“No. I don’t know. I expected you to react like a human being, I guess,” Michelle says, clutching the dressing gown she was wearing a little closer to her. “It was like the straw that broke you somehow.”

John clenches his jaw. She was wrong about that. His father’s death was what finally set him free in a way; it freed him of his twisted sense of obligation, and spurred him to leave the wreckage behind and do something important with his life. He joined the Army shortly after, and he said he would never look back.

“I know you think you did the right thing by leaving,” she says, summoning her uncanny ability to see right through him, “but even when you came back, you were listless and unreachable. You stopped taking phone calls, wouldn't see anybody, and decided you didn't want to be a doctor anymore. For a while we all thought we had lost you for good.”

Her eyes shine again with tears, and he feels the anger drain out of him. “You didn't.”

“I was worried, though. Greatly worried. Still am most of the time. But when I see you with Sherlock, I don’t doubt that you’ve found your purpose again, and believe me when I say nothing gives me greater joy than seeing you smile for real.” She seeks out his hand again, squeezing in a silent apology before her watery smile fades back into a concerned frown. “But you can’t put all of that expectation on Sherlock, John. You can’t just live for him; it doesn’t work like that.”

John swallows hard against the defensive indignation that wants to rise to the surface. The only reason he doesn’t offer up a bitten off reply or a tepid denial is because, deep down, he knows she’s right. A fission of shame coils low in his gut when the image of his sister comes to his mind.

He tried, oh did he try. As the oldest, John tried everything he could to protect Harry and his mum when his father flew off in a drunken rage. He got good at recognising when the old man was spoiling for a fight, and he would intentionally piss him off just so he could take the brunt of his fury.

This protector instinct inside him only grew into a conflagration when their mother died. He did what ever it took to get them both out of that house, gaining custody of her when he was barely eighteen, and she sixteen.

What he didn’t anticipate, however, was that the one person he would ever fail to protect Harry from was herself. 

Her self sabotage drove him to a fury he didn’t even know he harboured. How could she do this after all he had done? After the beating he took in her place when it came out that she was a lesbian? After waking up after that in hospital with three broken ribs, and a concussion that nearly killed him? For her to willingly kill herself the slowest way possible, and then force him to watch as she succumbed to an empty bottle -- the very thing that made him hate his own father. It was just too much.

So, he enlisted, washing his hands of her completely, and that was that. Or so he thought.

It wasn’t until after he was shot and nearly bleeding out on the sand that he realised his whole life he had been living for others, and for once — _Please, God! Let me live!_ — he wanted to just…

“Are you saying…I drove my sister to drink because of the expectations I placed on her?” John asks, voice flat.

Michelle’s eyebrows fly upward, and her mouth drops open slightly in shock. “Christ, John, no! Absolutely not. Harriet has made a mess of her own life, don’t you dare blame yourself for that.”

“It makes sense, in a way,” John says, feeling cold. “My mother — the official record said she died due to diabetic complications. But underneath it all I didn’t buy it. Not really. I don’t think Harry did either. I mean, how everyone could have overlooked insulin poisoning is beyond me. The signs were clear, and I know for a fact Harry blamed her for abandoning us.” He stops here, and Michelle grips his hand again, sweeping her thumb over the tops of his knuckles. “After she was gone, it was just the two of us, and I would be damned if I lost her, too.”

“Oh, John,” Michelle says.

“But I think that may have been my problem,” he rushes. He has to continue, to get it out. Confess. Because it's all so blindingly clear to him now. “I held on too tight, and she felt like she was drowning, and god, I didn’t see.”

John is embarrassed to feel tears stinging his eyes, and he gives a half-aborted chuckle, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Do you believe me now when I tell you therapy will help? Because it sounds to me like Harry isn’t the only one drowning,” she says, face earnest and full of compassion.

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “Yeah, I —”

“Knock, knock,” Stamford says just then, entering with a new splint and a takeaway cup. “Not interrupting, am I?” he asks when he looks between the two of them.

“No, not at all,” John says, releasing Michelle’s hand.

“I leave you alone for ten bloody minutes, Watson, and of course you’re chatting up my wife,” he says good-naturedly. “What was that nickname you got from your squaddie days? Three Continents?”

“All right, that’s enough out of you,” Michelle teases. “What took you so long?”

“Decided to double back for some hot cocoa. I hear it’s one of Sherlock’s favourites. Where is the little bugger, anyway?” he says.

John looks around in horror, realising for the first time how quiet it is in the room. “Sherlock?” The only evidence of Sherlock having been there is the stuffed bumblebee sitting on one of the plastic chairs.

“But, he was just here,” Michelle says in confusion.

 _“Sherlock?”_ John says, ducking down to see if he was under the bed. No such luck. He tries to calm his nerves, and he straightens up. “He must have got curious and wanted a look around. It’s not like him to go too far. I’ll find him,” he says, trying to tamp down the sudden bright panic flashing through him making his fingertips tingle, and his heart pound double time.

John exits the room swiftly, trying to reassure himself that no one in their right mind would let a little boy walk out of a hospital alone, and he’s reasonably confident that Sherlock wouldn’t just go quietly with any stranger. Especially not after yesterday. But just in case, he picks up his stride, rounding the corner at a slight jog.

When he nears A&E, he has to slam on the brakes. A team of frantic doctors are shunting a young man on a gurney down the corridor towards the ICU, one pumping an ambu-bag, and the others taking vitals and shouting out directives.

The young man was coding, and John nearly forgets where he is for a moment, the urge to jump in and help nearly overwhelming.

The moment passes, however, and after the emergency team runs by, John spots Sherlock standing just a little ways from him. He follows the team of doctors with wide, wet eyes, face pale and lips bleached white, and from this distance John can see he’s trembling slightly. There is also something clutched in his hands, held close as if his life depended on it. The doors to the ICU bang open making him flinch violently and it’s as if the spell over him breaks, releasing him from his frozen terror.

John is at his side in an instant just as the tears spill over, and he tries to sink to the floor in a silent wail.

“Sherlock! Hey, it’s all right, I’m here,” John says, catching him as his knees suddenly turn to jelly. The near collapse in itself is worrying, but he pushes it to the back of his mind and focusses on the matter at hand, mainly trying to get Sherlock to breathe through his shuttered, wracking sobs. “Take a deep breath, Sherlock. You’re going to make yourself sick, there’s a lad.”

“Joh — John!” he says, taking in huge gulps of air, and shaking in earnest. He’s still clutching that thing to his chest, and John tries to pry it away. It’s a shoe, he realises. The left half of a pair of trainers, white with blue stripes on the side. “It – it fell off. When they brought him in. It fell off, and I picked it up and I–I —” Sherlock stammers, letting John set the shoe on the ground.

“What, the boy? The boy dropped his shoe?” John asks, looking back at where the rubber doors are still swinging on their hinges.

Sherlock nods, and starts crying again, hunching in on himself like he usually does when he’s desperately trying to stifle his tears. “It’s my fault, John! M-my fault!”

“Oh, love, no. It’s nobody’s fault. Accidents happen. I’m sorry you had to witness that, but I’m sure he’s going to be just fine,” John says, trying to gather him close, but Sherlock struggles in his grasp, little hands pushing insistently on his chest.

“No! No, John, no! N-not a accident! My fa–fault. He helped me, John! And now…now he’s going to die!” Sherlock says.

“Helped you?” John says, frowning. Sherlock nods and desperately clutches the front of John’s jumper trying to get him to understand.

John looks over his shoulder once more, something niggling in the back of his brain. The young man on the gurney…he looked familiar, didn’t he?

_Sand. Desert. Afghanistan. A woman in an alley clutching her dead son to her as mortars explode in the distance…_

_‘Please! You are a doctor! Help my son! Help my son!’_

John shakes his head. No that wasn’t it. He’s in London, now. Not in Afghanistan. He looks back into Sherlock’s face, reading the fear written in his eyes and he places it. Yesterday at the park, a young boy with jogging shoes in town visiting his aunt. He was training to be a lifeguard.

“Carl Powers?” John says. Sherlock’s chin trembles and he lets out a strangled sob. His cheeks are flushed scarlet making his eyes look fever bright, and John checks his temperature with the back of his hand. He is warm.

“My fault,” he whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep...I killed Carl Powers. Sorry guys.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. I kind of kicked my own self in the solar plexus with the feels. So I am warning you now. And really, you all have been so supportive of this little piece. I know I say thank you ever chapter, but I just really want to let you all know how much you guys save me from myself on a daily basis. This story has bloomed to what it is because of you guys, and honestly, writing it has been a panacea as of late when my own demons creep to the surface.
> 
> So, in short: You all have been a blessing.
> 
> xxHoney.

John looks through the window outside of Inspector Lestrade’s office, his stomach in knots. Sherlock is curled up tight on Lestrade’s small leather sofa, dozing fitfully under John’s haversack. He was running a slight temperature, but was shivering so hard John couldn’t deny him a bit of warmth and comfort after all he’d just been through. After his recent swim in the pond, the threat of pneumonia isn’t off the table, but John reasoned he would be fine as long as he kept a close eye on him. With that being said, he was reluctant to wander too far from him despite being surrounded by Scotland Yard’s finest.

After the incident outside A&E, Sherlock had been insensate with panic. He wouldn’t listen to anything John had to say in attempt to reassure him about Carl Powers. The only thing that got him to calm down was when John suggested that they take Sherlock’s concerns to the police. 

At first, John didn’t think there was anything that suggested it was something other than a big coincidence, but Sherlock was insistent. Staring into the little boy’s distressed face made up John’s mind to give the incident a second look. It just so happened one of the nurses attending to Carl was one he was well acquainted with, and after a promise of coffee at the café he knew she liked, he was able to convince her to give him a status. 

The prognosis was a bleak one. Here was an athletic boy with a bright future suddenly dead with no rhyme or reason. The only thing the doctors had to go on was a possible toxin that had been introduced to his bloodstream, and John — being the medical professional that he was — was inclined to agree.

It was all very dubious, and the more John thought on it, it reeked of foul play.

That’s how he found himself here, waiting for the DI to come back from fetching the proper paperwork.

He leans his head back against the glass, letting out a long breath through his nose and closing his eyes.

“You look like you could use this more than me,” a voice says, startling him. His head snaps forward, and he meets the bland gaze of a female Sergeant, her curly hair pulled back into a loose tie. She holds out a white paper cup full of what he assumes is coffee, and he takes it gratefully.

“Thank you…” John says, taking a sip. She looks familiar, and it takes him a moment to place where he’s seen her before. “Sergeant Donovan, right?”

“You can call me Sally,” she says, giving him a tired smile. “I’ll be honest, I had hoped we wouldn’t find you around here quite so soon.”

“Why’s that?” John says, blowing on the bitter brew. It’s frankly terrible, but it’s hot, and that’s all that matters.

“This case has been nothing but trouble from the start, and you being here can only mean there’s more that we have to unearth before we can close.”

John isn’t sure why, but he bristles at the statement. It wasn’t as if he wanted these things to happen anymore than she did. “Well, it will all be over soon,” is his tepid reply in the end.

“Thank god for small mercies,” Sally says, mistaking his rebuff for commiseration. “I can only imagine what it’s like for you,” she adds with a snort. John arches an eyebrow, not liking where the conversation was headed one bit.

“What do you mean?”

“Well…” Sally falters a little, suddenly on the back foot at his no doubt fierce expression. “I only meant that it can’t be easy for you, being suddenly saddled with a kid — let alone a kid like _him.”_

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?” John says, a tad sharp.

“You know…” she says uncertain, shifting on her feet. “He’s different. _Strange.”_

John straightens his spine, summoning his patience. “No, he’s incredible. And I’d appreciate it if you watch what you say when you’re talking about my child,” he says coldly.

“Look,” Sally says, bristling. “I didn’t mean to imply —”

“Maybe it’s for the best if we both just stick to what we know,” John says tightly, wanting to end the conversation. He presses the cup of coffee back into her hands. “It’s a bit too bitter for my taste.”

Without another word, he turns and heads back into Lestrade’s office, shutting the door quietly, but firmly in her face.

He breathes out, clenching his left hand into a fist to ward off the slight tremor that was there, and walks over to the sofa to check on Sherlock.

Apparently, he didn’t shut the door quietly enough because Sherlock’s head is hidden from view, and he is much too still to be truly asleep.

“Sherlock,” he calls softly, letting the warmth he feels for his little charge melt away the cold abrasive feeling of his recent encounter. He lowers the jacket revealing a trembling Sherlock with his hands clamped over his face. “Hey, none of that now,” John says, taking a seat beside him.

Sherlock murmurs something, choking on a sob, and curls up on his side with his face buried in the back of the sofa cushions. John swallows back a lump in his throat, and pulls the jacket up to Sherlock's ears, keeping him warm. He doesn’t know what else to do when Sherlock gets like this other than reassure him that he isn’t going anywhere. He settles with rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder blades, grimacing when Sherlock flinches violently at first. It was like he was one giant exposed nerve; the slightest stimulus overwhelming. He had to get him home.

Just as he was about to get up and go look for Lestrade, the DI barges in looking a little harried, his arms full of paperwork.

Sherlock curls in tighter on himself, sucking in a sharp breath and holding it. John places a hand in his hair, shushing him gently until he uncoils somewhat.

“Sorry,” Lestrade whispers, closing the door silently. “How’s he doing?” he asks softly, pulling up a chair next to John.

“It’s been a hard day for him. How much longer?” John says. 

“Not much longer, now. I just need your signatures on these forms here,” Lestrade says, indicating the papers he had walked in with. John nods, and takes a pen from Lestrade, signing all the places that were marked. After a moment, Lestrade speaks up again. “And you’re sure this kid, Carl Powers, has something to do with the Hope case?”

“Hope wasn’t alone; you’ve told me as much. Given the fact, it’s just too strange that this boy ends up poisoned the day after he prevents Sherlock from being kidnapped.”

Lestrade looks dubious. “I don’t know, Dr. Watson. It’s seems a bit of a stretch. All we’ve got is speculation.”

“No,” Sherlock murmurs from under the jacket. He pulls himself upright, back pressing into the cushions knees tucked up to his chest, with his hands still over his eyes. _“No.”_

“Shh, shh,” John says, carding a gentle hand through his hair. Sherlock winces, and John goes to pull his hand back. Before he can, however, Sherlock grabs onto his wrist with clammy hands.

“Shoes. The shoes.”

“Shoes?” John says, leaning closer.

 _“Shoes,”_ Sherlock says again, eyes vivid with pain. He sobs, clutching at his head.

“What’s he saying?” Lestrade asks, concern colouring his tone.

John takes a moment to parse what Sherlock is trying to tell him. “Come here, Sherlock,” he whispers, gathering the shaking boy into his lap as delicately as he can. Sherlock clings to his front at little woodenly at first, but when John wraps firm arms around him with just enough pressure, he releases a shuddering breath as if he had been holding it all this time. 

“When the Powers boy was brought in…” John starts thoughtfully, rubbing a steady hand up and down Sherlock’s back, “he was wearing a pair of trainers. You might want to see if the hospital still has his effects, and test some of his clothing for any sort of toxin. If it was absorbed through his skin, there would be traces on any fabric where it made the most contact. It’s just a thought, but it could help you find out how he died faster than waiting for the autopsy.”

Lestrade nods, jotting down a few notes down on the steno pad he procured from his breast pocket. “You sure it’s poison, though?” he asks pointedly.

“It is my professional opinion, yes. He doesn’t have any other medical conditions, or genetic dispositions according to his charts. The lad was fit as a fiddle, but within a matter of minutes he hit full blown respiratory failure. I can’t see it being anything other than a foreign toxin.”

Lestrade nods, still scratching down information. “I’ll give them a call and have them bag his clothes as evidence for our forensics. I’ll also have Molly make his autopsy a top priority.”

“Molly Hooper?” John queries.

“The one and only,” Lestrade says with an oddly proud grin. “She is a fantastic liaison for the courts, but according to her it doesn’t really pay the bills. Her first job is our resident pathologist down at Bart’s. I only call her in as a formal guardian on the special cases,” he says, he eyes going soft when he looks at Sherlock.

“M-Molly?” Sherlock pipes up, his voice reedy and thin. He shifts a little so he could look at the Detective Inspector.

“That’s right, sport. Our Molly is going to find out what happened to Carl.”

“She is?” he whispers.

“You bet. And it’s all because of you. You are a smart lad, and you did the right thing coming to me about this,” Lestrade says, wiping a tear away from the tip of Sherlock’s nose.

John’s heart breaks a little when Sherlock’s face crumples. “But he still died,” he says, lower lip quavering.

“Yes, but because of what you’ve told me, the people responsible won’t get away. I’ll see to it personally,” Lestrade says, voice gruff with determination. John recognises the fierce look on his well-worn face. This is a man who has seen the battlefield. Different from his, surely, but a battlefield nonetheless.

Sherlock frowns a little, finally nodding his understanding. He carefully holds out his hand, reaching tentatively for the Inspector. Puzzled, Lestrade holds out his own hand palm up, glancing at John. Sherlock clutches his sleeve, and the DI wraps his long fingers around his small wrist. They share a weighted look before Sherlock swallows hard.

“It wasn’t —” he says, a sharp sob cutting him off before he tries again. He opens his eyes, and heavy tears fall from his lashes. “It wasn’t your fault. Your son. It wasn’t your fault he died.”

Lestrade pales, wide eyes darting over Sherlock’s face, before shooting up to John for an explanation that he doesn’t have.

“How do you know about Lucas?” Lestrade says, aghast.

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut again, shaking his head. He lets go of the Inspector’s cuff and rests back against John, burying his face in the crook of his neck, his too-fast breaths damp against John’s collar.

“I think that’s enough for today, Inspector,” John says somberly.

Lestrade clears his throat, hardening his resolve. “Right. Yeah…I’ve got all I need I think,” he says, voice controlled despite the haunted shadows in his eyes. “Thank you for coming to me with this.”

“It wasn’t a problem, Inspector,” John says, standing.

“Please, call me Greg,” Lestrade says, shaking John’s hand. John nods, and follows the DI towards the door. Before they go out, Lestrade pauses as if remembering something and turns back around to face them. He puts a hand gently on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Hey, sport. Look at me.” Sherlock hesitates, but eventually reveals himself, peeking out from his shelter. “What happened to Carl Powers is not your fault either, do you hear me?”

Sherlock looks at the DI, a war playing out on his face. After a moment, he nods, not necessarily convinced if his fist twisting anxiously in John’s jumper is anything to go by. John drops a kiss on the crown of his head, his heart cramping in his chest. How can there be just _so much_ inside one little person? He feels so powerless against that unforgiving tide, and he constantly feels lost in knowing how to make it easier for him.

After taking a breath, John thanks the DI around the searing lump in his throat. He bundles Sherlock even tighter in his arms, and allows Greg to give them a ride back to the solace of Baker Street.

* * *

“Here’s another cool cloth for the little love,” Mrs. Hudson says in a low voice. John thanks her and gently places the damp flannel against Sherlock’s fevered brow. Sherlock blinks up at him, eyes glassy with exhaustion, but stubbornly refusing to close. John sighs and gives him a stern look, but it’s half-hearted at best.

Instead, John brushes the back of his knuckles against Sherlock’s flushed cheek, and chides him softly, “You need to get some sleep, Bones.”

Sherlock presses his lips in a thin line, hand shooting up to grasp John’s jumper. John sighs again, gently prying his fingers away. He gets up from his position on the side of the bed, clearing away the thermometer and the children’s fever reducer.

“Can you stay with him, Mrs. Hudson?” John asks.

“Of course, dear,” she says taking his place, and running her hand through Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock slams his eyes shut, and turns his face as far as he can away from the light.

John frowns, and after he puts everything away in the bathroom, he retrieves his brown cardigan from where it’s lying on the chair in the sitting room. Making it back to his bedroom, he drapes the cardigan over the lamp shade, casting the room in muted, soft light.

Sherlock lets out a breath, his face relaxing from being twisted in pain.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” Mrs. Hudson murmurs, turning the cloth over to the cool side. Tears seep out from under his eyelids, falling silently onto the pillow. She looks up at John. “Can’t you give him anything else for the pain?”

“I’ve already given him as much as I am comfortable with. The migraine meds I keep on hand aren’t really meant for children,” John says.

Mrs. Hudson gets to her feet, smoothing down the duvet, and worrying the hem of her apron. She touches John’s arm, her voice quiet. “Is this normal? Him to be having these terrible headaches?”

“It’s not uncommon but…” John trails off. He didn’t want to worry Mrs. Hudson, so he rallies his confidence, and slips on his ‘I’m-a-doctor-no-need-for-concern’ smile. “He’ll feel better once the medicine kicks in.”

“I sure hope so,” Mrs. Hudson says, turning the cloth on Sherlock’s forehead one more time. “It’s late, I’ll just be going. Shout if you need anything, dear.”

She squeezes John’s arm with a warm smile, and takes her leave.

John rubs the back of his neck, staving off the helpless feeling rising inside of him as he looks at the little boy struggling to stay awake in his bed. For a moment he lets the fear overwhelm him. How did he ever think he could do this? Be a _father?_ He was flailing; inept in giving Sherlock what he needed. There was just so much Sherlock required — physically, emotionally — that John didn’t even know where to start. Even this one thing he had to offer, his skill as a physician, was falling short. 

It was true that it wasn’t uncommon for young children to get headaches and then outgrow them when they were older, but four-and-ten-months seemed a bit too young for something so severe. The first one, John chalked it up to the infection he was battling from the wound on his leg. But this one…

Frankly, it scares the piss out of him. 

Everything from hydrocephalus, to meningitis, to brain tumours runs through his mind, each diagnosis worse than the last, until he is all but drowning in the miasma of fear that wrapped itself around him. He would have stayed that way for God knows how long, paralysed and rooted to the floor, had Sherlock’s small, scared voice not pulled him out of that dark chasm.

“Papa?” he cries, voice shill with terror and delirium. John swallows back the tightness in his chest, eyes closing for a moment. He’s only ever heard Sherlock call him that once, and that had been when he was asleep. _“Papa!”_

John snaps out of it, and crosses to the bedside in two strides, cupping Sherlock’s face between his palms in attempt to get his bleary eyes to focus. He squints, confused at first, weakly trying to push John away.

“Hey, hey. Shh. I’m here, Bones. It’s all right,” John says. 

He can’t help but notice how hot his skin feels. When he takes the cloth away from his head, a spike of worry hits him with how it’s nearly warmed all the way through. The fever reducers aren’t working fast enough, and John doesn’t need a thermometer to know that this was edging into dangerous territory.

After a moment of pandering, John decides there’s nothing for it, and he sets about figuring out the easiest way to get him cooled off. A bath would be best, but after having been forced into freezing water at Hope’s hands time and time again, John is sure a tepid bath would feel nothing short of torture to Sherlock. He would have to get creative.

Nodding to himself, John scoops Sherlock up, his resolve hardening when he feels his little cheek burning into the side of his neck.

“I’m going to make you feel better, Sherlock. It’s going to be okay, I’ve got you,” John says, heading into the bathroom.

With one hand he turns on the taps to lukewarm, and then proceeds to strip Sherlock of his pyjamas. He trembles, hunching in on himself when the cold air hits his clammy skin. Next, John gently removes the splint from his wrist, and drapes a towel over him for a moment while he strips likewise, leaving his boxers on.

“C’mere, Bones,” John says lifting Sherlock into his arms once more. “This is going to be cold, and I am really sorry about that, but I’ve got to get your temp down.” Sherlock merely whimpers, his arms wound tight around John’s neck.

Steeling himself, John steps into the spray of the shower.

The initial shock of the water is about what John expects. Sherlock cries out, growing hysterical as his flushed skin comes in contact with water that is several degrees cooler than him. He struggles against John’s hold, trying to get away from the stream causing John to nearly drop him.

“Sherlock!”

“No, no, no, no!” Sherlock wails. “Please, no more!” He pushes at John’s chest, legs flailing. John has to clutch him even tighter, the water making everything a bit slippery.

“Sherlock —” John tries again.

“I’m s-sorry! Please, no more! No more, Mister Hope! I’m sorry!”

And, god, do those words tear at him. He feels as if his ribs are breaking due to the crushing feeling in his chest.

“Sherlock, it’s me. It’s John, remember?” he says, hopelessly.

But Sherlock doesn’t hear, despite John’s words murmured into his ear. He rubs his broad palm over the wet skin of Sherlock’s back, stomach churning with how fragile he still feels. He wants nothing more than to bundle him up in something soft and warm, hating himself even more when he forces them both fully under the spray. Nothing helps, and Sherlock’s cries echo around the bathroom, piercing his heart, a litany of _‘I’m sorry!’_ and _‘It’s hurts!’_ and _‘No more!’_ and _‘Please, please, please, please…’_

It takes John a moment to realise he’s the one saying please in a voice he hardly recognises. Begging, actually, his own face suddenly wet with more than just water.

“Please, Sherlock. Please,” John says, voice breaking. “Tell me what to do.” He sinks down to the bottom of the tub, cradling Sherlock in his arms, as he cries right along with him. “ _Please._ I can’t lose you. _I can’t lose you,_ please come back. It’s all right. It’s John.”

Finally, just when John thinks they might have to take a trip to hospital, Sherlock’s frantic cries taper off into exhausted little sobs. He lifts his head, struggling to hold it up. 

“P-papa?” Sherlock says, little hands curling and uncurling where they rest on John’s chest.

“Yes, it’s me. It’s John,” he says, relief creeping in as he pushes Sherlock's hair back so he could glimpse those fearful eyes. Even though he’s tired and confused, he looks back at him with a bit more clarity than before. John sighs when he realises the shower is finally doing its job.

“Papa. Papa,” he whimpers, his head falling heavily onto John’s shoulder. _“Papa.”_

“Yeah, it’s…Papa,” John says, cupping the back of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock quiets, his shivering dying down as John continues to hold him tight. “It’s all right, Papa’s got you.” He rocks them back and forth under the water, murmuring into his soaked curls, nonsense things that are meant to comfort him more than anything.

Later, after John gets them both out of the shower and into warm pyjamas, after he tucks Sherlock already half gone to sleep beneath the downy coverlet, he makes his way out to the sitting room, mobile clutched tight in his hand.

He sits on the sofa and after much deliberation, he brings up a number he hasn’t willingly dialed in a long, long time.

The phone rings on and on, and John’s just about to call it a lost cause, when the receiver on the other end clicks, and he hears a tired, yet pleasantly surprised voice on the other end. 

_“Johnny?”_

The knot in his chest grows, and he can’t quite keep his voice from shaking.

“Harry,” he breathes. 

***

An hour later, John sits on the sofa next to his sister, willing his hands steady as he divulges, in his opinion, the short version of how his life completely changed within the course of three weeks.

Even though it was the short version, Harry still looks around the flat, face pale and mind obviously reeling as she processes what John just finished telling her. Her blue eyes track over the various incongruous artifacts strewn about the desk and sitting room floor -- items like a bin of brightly coloured blocks, a box of markers, and an open chemistry text with an inexpertly drawn water molecule scribbled on the back of a colouring book in fire-engine red. She frowns lightly, the shadows playing up the creases in her expression, and she leans forward so she could pluck the stuffed bumblebee from the coffee table.

She holds it in her lap, swallowing hard and refusing to meet his eyes.

Finally, John can’t take it anymore, and he snaps. “Will you say something?”

“What do you want me to say?” Harry says, looking at him sharply. “Congrats?”

“I don’t know -- something!” John hisses, trying to keep his voice down. “I mean, Christ. I’ve just told you, that for all intents and purposes, I now have a child! I would like your opinion.”

“Really?” she says disdainfully, running a hand through her short blonde hair in agitation.

“Yes, really! You’re my family.”

Harry tosses him a bitter look, her mouth parting to no doubt fling another barb at him when she startles, suddenly realising something. “Oh. Johnny. You’re planning on keeping him. This isn’t some sort of misguided impulse.”

“Of course I am. Wait, what do you mean _‘misguided impulse?’”_

“You’ve always had a hero-complex, I don’t know why I’m surprised,” Harry says almost to herself. “But of all things a _child,_ John? You swore against it after the Old Man was buried. Up and down.”

John grits his teeth at the mention of their father. “I know.”

“Even cost you a few relationships, if I remember.”

“Yes. I was there,” John says, patience wearing thin.

“So, why now?” Harry says, her voice emotionless, the only thing betraying her is the tension set deep around her eyes.

“It’s not about timing,” John says. “I don’t have the urge to pass on the Watson legacy, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Then what is it? You’re hardly paternal material,” she scoffs harshly.

Something inside of him deflates at hearing his own insecurities hurtled back at him. It hurts more than he was expecting, and he regrets ever calling his sister. “Yeah…yeah. Well, thanks for dropping by,” he says flatly, intending to stand and show her to the door. 

“Johnny?” Harry says, smirk falling off her face. She grabs his arm, stopping him. “Wait. Look at me, yeah?” John lifts his eyes, managing to meet hers that are so much like his own, before they drop to the floor. “I’m — I’m sorry, okay? I’ve just been…total shite lately,” she says, and John notices the tremor in her hands, and the faint sourness on her breath that he usually chooses to ignore.

“I don’t know why I even called. It’s just been a whirlwind, and I guess…I don’t know.”

“This has really affected you, hasn’t it?” Harry says softly. She squeezes his arm. “I’m sorry, but you have to understand it’s quite a shock. I just never —”

“I know, me too,” John says. After a beat, he squeezes her hand back. “And I don’t have any bloody idea what I’m doing.”

They sit in a silence for a moment, listening to the sounds of a slumbering London beyond Baker Street, and John allows himself this bit of solace.

“Can I see him?” Harry asks, her eyes lingering on the hallway where John left the dim light on for Sherlock’s sake. 

He swallows thickly. “All right.”

John rises on wooden legs, and he leads Harry back to the bedroom. “He’s asleep, so…” John whispers, pushing open the door so the light slants over the bed.

John was half expecting Sherlock to still be struggling to stay awake, but is relieved to find him sleeping peacefully. He comes into the room, and presses his lips against his forehead, gauging his temperature. It seems as if the paracetamol was doing its job at keeping the fever at bay. He straightens, and beckons Harry closer.

She hovers in the doorway for an uncertain moment, Sherlock’s favourite stuffed toy still awkwardly clutched in her hands. John smiles encouragingly, and she finally steps into the room.

“You said he’s been ill?” Harry asks lowly, taking in Sherlock’s ashen complexion and rosy cheeks.

“The more emotional things become, the harder it is for him to deal with. His mind never shuts off, constantly processing, and I think the stress and fear of it all simply overwhelms him,” John explains.

Harry reaches out tentatively and stokes his still-damp hair. “Poor thing.”

“I’m running out of ways to help him cope,” John admits in the darkness, finally giving his greatest fear a voice. “What if…what if I’m not good enough for him? What if someone like Mycroft Holmes is?”

Harry sighs, tucking the bumblebee snug next to Sherlock where he would see it if he woke, and be comforted. Then, she turns towards him, eyes earnest in the half-light.

“What if you aren’t, John?” she says. John blinks, not expecting her to doubt him as much as he did himself. He closes his eyes against the sting of her words, half turning away from a truth he feared to acknowledge. “Would you be willing to let him go?”

His throat hurts, and his heart knocks painfully against his ribs. It takes effort for him to swallow back the reply that immediately springs to his lips, a resounding _‘No’_ sharp on his tongue like old metal. Instead, he croaks out a ragged, “Yes.” He straightens, determined, and clears his throat. “Yes, I would if it was for the best.”

Harry breaks out in a soft smile at his words. “Then there’s your answer. It’s for that reason why you will always be good enough for Sherlock.”

John lets out a hushed laugh that sounds more like a sob than he’s willing to admit. He brings a hand up to his face, hiding the raw emotion and utter _relief_ that crashes over him in that instant. He almost feels dizzy with it, and has to sit down on the side of the bed for a moment, his hand coming automatically to Sherlock's cheek in a gesture more for his own comfort than anything. He looks up when he feels a warm hand on his shoulder. 

“All the years we’ve shared. I never…I never thanked you for taking care of me the best you could,” Harry says, her own voice frayed. “But, maybe there is something I can still do for you.” John looks at her questioningly, too exhausted to discern where she’s headed. “If this Holmes is as powerful as you say, you are gonna need the best legal representation there is. I think it’s time I got in touch with Clara.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look! Another update within the same month! This little story has all but ate up my brain as of late, so I APOLOGISE to those people also reading my 'Colour of Light' stuff. I have been consumed with little!Sherlock at the moment. 
> 
> Anyways, I figured we could all use a little more schmoop in this story, so this is quite light hearted, and from Sherlock's POV again. I hope you like it. It's got pirates, and Christmas cookies, and chopsticks, and Star Trek. So...I think I covered everything. Yep. 
> 
> You guys continue to be amazing and lift my spirits, and thank you all for the kind words.
> 
> xxHoney

Sherlock crawls up into John’s lap while he sits his in lumpy armchair, and holds his splinted arm out imploringly.

John gives him a look, one of his pretend looks that aren’t really serious, and sets his book down on the small table.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting this off, now?” he says, inspecting Sherlock’s wrist.

“Yes. You said ‘in a few more days’ a few days ago, and it doesn’t hurt any more, and it’s really itchy, so please, John? Please?” Sherlock says.

“Hmm. I don’t know…” he says, a playful look in his eye, and Sherlock bounces a bit on his lap when he catches on.

“Please, John! You said! You said!”

“All right,” John laughs, taking his wrist and finding the end of the stretchy bandage. He begins to unravel it, and at last the splint is removed for good. “There you go, my dear,” he says, and gives him a sloppy wet kiss to his cheek.

 _“John,”_ Sherlock giggles, pushing him away. John just laughs some more, taking Sherlock’s right arm and inspecting it for real. When John seems satisfied, Sherlock twists his hand so it’s palm to palm against John’s bigger one, and spreads his fingers to try and line them up. His little finger doesn’t quite reach John’s when John spreads his wide.

“No wrist pain?” John asks.

“Nope,” Sherlock says. “Promise.”

“Good. That’s good,” John says, his voice going a bit distant, and his eyes going a bit sad. He had been doing that a lot lately. Ever since Sherlock’s headache a few weeks ago when he couldn’t hold back all the Knowing. Sherlock was trying not to let it happen again.

“John?” Sherlock says meekly.

John snaps out of it, and a smile breaks out over his face. It looks a little forced, and Sherlock feels a little cold. “Hey, how about we do something? Go somewhere?” he says like he does every day, trying to bait Sherlock into going outside. “We could go for a walk, or to the library? We could get some more books about Egypt that you like, with the mummies?”

Sherlock lowers his gaze, and plays with John’s fingers in his lap. “No thank you,” he replies.

“Sherlock,” John says, voice low. He ducks he head so he could look at Sherlock’s face. “You don’t need to be afraid. I _will not_ let anything happen to you.”

“Not afraid,” Sherlock says, wrinkling his nose.

“What is it then?” John says. Sherlock frowns, and goes to hide himself under John’s chin. John stops him this time, cupping his warm fingers under Sherlock’s face and tilting his head up. “Tell me, Bones. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Sherlock bites his lip, worrying it between his teeth. Words were hard for him still, after living so long in silence. “I don’t…”

“Don’t what, love?” John whispers, eyes patient and kind.

“I like it when it’s just us. It’s…quieter. No Stories,” Sherlock admits. “No headache.”

John gives him a look of understanding. “I wish I knew what it’s like for you,” he says softly, fingertips pressing gently into the side of Sherlock’s head, his thumb brushing over his eyebrow. “Then maybe I would know what to do to help.”

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say whenever John says things like that. He brushes his hands up and down John’s wooly jumper instead, liking the way the texture feels on his palms.

“What if it happens again when I have to talk to the Judge?” Sherlock says, worrying the collar of John’s jumper between his fingers.

“I’ll be with you. And so will Molly,” John says. 

“I know,” Sherlock nods quickly not looking at John, because sometimes John is good at seeing Stories too, and he always knows what Sherlock is thinking. Like right now, he still feels scared that it will come back and then next time it does, it won’t ever go away. Sometimes that’s how it feels, and he’s too afraid to ask if headaches can really do that.

Sherlock reaches over and picks up John’s book, pushing it into his hands. He snuggles into the crook of his arm, and looks up at him expectantly.

“Do you want me to read aloud?” he asks. Sherlock nods, and settles in when John picks up where he left off in his mystery novel, resting his head back against his chest as he listens to John's soft timbre.

He doesn’t understand why Erickson keeps trying to kiss Ashley Carpenter specially because she is the one who most likely killed his fiancée a year ago, but he likes the fact that there are pirates. He tells John as much.

“Wait…Ashley is the murderer he’s been trying to hunt down this whole time?” John says, looking down at Sherlock.

“Mmhm. It’s because of the lilies,” Sherlock says, pointing to the book’s dust jacket where a vine of the white flowers wreathed the edges of the title. “Lilies mean death. And she likes to put lilies in her hair.”

John’s brow furrows, and he thumbs through the pages, surreptitiously glancing at Sherlock. He flips to the end, frowning, his eyes tracking silently over the words, until he huffs out a breath, and rolls his eyes.

“Of course she did it,” John grumbles, and closes the book. He gives Sherlock a fondly exasperated look. “What am I ever going to do with you?”

“Do pirates really exists in today times?” Sherlock asks, curious.

John leans his cheek on his knuckles in contemplation, playing idly with Sherlock’s messy curls. “I suppose there are, yeah. Piracy comes in a lot of forms nowadays. Not all of them involve pirate ships and sunken treasure, but some still sail the open seas.”

“Really?” Sherlock says, eyes widening.

“Aye,” John says in a gruff voice, squinting one eye shut, and contorting his face into a truly pirate-worthy snarl.

“What’s the point of being a pirate if you don’t have a pirate ship, though?”

“Hm. That is a very good question,” John says. “Hang on a mo.” He gets up, leaving Sherlock in the chair to wonder what he has planned, and makes his way to the hall cupboard. Sherlock sits up on his knees peering over the back of the armchair as John struggles with a cardboard box, muttering swear words he’s not allowed to say in front of Sherlock. Rummaging in its depths, he finally finds what he’s looking for with a triumphant _‘ah ha!’_

Sherlock stands up on the chair cushion, eager to see what John has in his hands. It looks like another book, but John slips the jacket off, and instead of a book, it’s a black plastic rectangle.

“What is it?” Sherlock queries.

“It’s a film,” John says, handing the jacket to Sherlock. The front has a picture of a man with a black beard and a tricorn hat, a flag with a skull and crossbones waving behind him. Across the top in yellow are the words, _Treasure Island._

“Who is…Oron Wellies?”

“Orson Welles? Only the best Long John Silver that ever existed,” John says. He pops the film in the machine under the telly, and Sherlock watches as the odd device sucks the movie in with a whirring clicking noise. John comes over and swoops Sherlock up into his arms with a growled, "Avast ye, matey!" causing Sherlock to shriek in delighted surprise.

They both settle on the sofa, and watch as the screen flickers, the credits starting up with a grand sweeping overture that thrills Sherlock to the core causing him to tremble in anticipation. It’s an old film, and there are parts that made him giggle with how fake it all is, but the thing that has Sherlock riveted is the adventure of it all; the freedom that came with being a pirate. 

Sherlock was disappointed when it was over to say the least.

“Can we watch it again?” he says eagerly.

“What, right now?” John says with a chuckle.

“Yes!”

“I’m afraid not, Bones. Today’s Wednesday. I have my appointment, and you have a date with Mrs. Hudson.”

Sherlock deflates at this. He forgot it was Wednesday.

“But you’re not sick,” Sherlock says.

“It’s not that kind of doctor, Sherlock, we discussed this,” John sighs.

“Then why can’t I come?” he pouts.

“It’s really, really boring. And besides, you like your time with Mrs. Hudson, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answers grudgingly.

“I hear you guys are baking Christmas cookies today. That sounds like way more fun than a boring old appointment in a stuffy office. Right?”

Sherlock nods, his tummy feeling all fluttery at the thought of John leaving. He’s getting better are pretending, and he focusses on keeping his breathing steady so it doesn’t give him away.

But John knows Sherlock, and he sighs again, gathering him in his arms. The fluttery feeling goes down a little, and Sherlock relaxes into John’s side, gripping onto his jumper. They just sit there in the quiet for a while, until John turns on the telly. It’s nice that they don’t have to say anything, and the show is distracting even though it’s a spaceship show, and spaceship shows are kind of silly because they don’t really make sense.

He looks up at John and sees his amused smile. Suddenly, Sherlock’s attention snaps to the television as the captain of the spaceship calls the man in blue ‘Bones.’

“Hey!” Sherlock says, head whipping around to John for an explanation.

“That’s Dr. Leonard McCoy of the Starship Enterprise,” John says.

“They call him _Bones!”_

“Yep. He was my favourite character when I would watch this show as a boy. That’s when I thought being a doctor would be really cool. Of course, I didn’t realise at the time that there was no such thing as the Starship Enterprise,” John says.

“He’s your most favourite character?” Sherlock asks.

“He is. He’s intelligent, kind, brave, and he takes care of his friends.”

Sherlock looks back to the screen. He decides this spaceships show isn’t silly after all, and snuggles into John’s side even more as they finish watching the episode.

Eventually, though, the episode ends and John clicks off the telly. The fluttery feeling comes back, and he curls up into John even tighter in order to prevent him from getting up.

“Sherlock,” John says.

“No. Please don’t go,” Sherlock mumbles.

“It’s only for a couple of hours, and then I will be right back, and when I come home we’ll have supper. I can pick something up.”

“No,” Sherlock says, burying his face.

“I’ll pick up curry noodles. You like those,” John says, lips murmuring into the crown of his head trying to entice him to come out. Sherlock stills, thinking over his options. He really does like curry noodles.

“With extra peanuts on top?” Sherlock asks, voice muffled.

“Absolutely.”

Sherlock lifts his head from John’s shoulder. “Okay.”

John kisses his forehead, and lifts him up. On their way out, John grabs his jacket and the blue scarf.

“Wait!” Sherlock says. “Can I bring the Pirate movie?”

“Go get it,” John says as if he’s indulging Sherlock, when really his smile says otherwise.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

* * *

Baking cookies with Missus Hudson is really fun, seeing as how Sherlock never baked anything before. Baking, Missus Hudson says, is like science. You have to measure the exact right amount of the gredients using little spoons and cups, or else it will be ruined. Not enough flowers, and the cookies won’t puff up, and too much and the dough falls apart.

Missus Hudson lets him measure out the vanilla, though, and instead of being exact she adds an extra splash because not everything is better if you strictly follow the instructions, and sometimes not knowing exactly what you get is exciting, too.

“Extra vanilla is my little secret, as well as a little nutmeg. But don’t you go telling everyone,” she winks, patting his knee while he swings his legs as he sits on the counter top. He plays with the blue scarf around his neck, and sneaks a bit of cookie dough when she’s not looking.

Her phone rings from the sitting room, a loud jangling noise that causes her to jump a little. “Oh! That’ll be Mr. Chatterjee. Hang tight, love,” she says and wipes her hands on her apron.

Sherlock frowns when he hears her happiness, and wonders again if he should say anything.

Before he can make up his mind to or not, a soft tapping sound comes from behind him, and he twists around. There, through the window above Missus Hudson’s sink, is a face that is very familiar. Sharp, muddy brown eyes, scruffy blonde hair, and a stained jumper two sizes too big. 

Sherlock gasps in surprise, and slips off the counter, motioning to the back door.

After making sure Missus Hudson was still talking on the phone, Sherlock sneaks to the door, and slips into the alley outside.

“Wiggy!” Sherlock exclaims, running to the young man and throwing his arms around his legs in a tight hug.

“There you are, Shezza,” Wiggy says, a wiry arm crushing Sherlock to him. “I been lookin’ ages for ya. Thought you was gone for good, I did.”

Sherlock pulls back and beams at his friend, and shoots a glance over his shoulder. “Can you stay for a little longer? I can introduce you to Missus Husdon. She’s really nice. And then later you can meet John!”

“Er…” Wiggy says, shifting awkwardly on his feet. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Shez. I just wanted to find out if you was okay.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says. He remembers Wiggy doesn’t really like people he doesn’t trust, ex-pecially grown-ups, and he only really trusts people he knows who are on the streets like him. “Can you wait for a little? I can bring out some cookies for you. Like old times.”

“I’ll wait a bit. But don’t tell anybody I’m ‘ere, yeah? It’ll be our litt’l secret.”

“Okay. Please don’t go. I’ll be back soon,” Sherlock says, already backing away to where he came. Wiggy nods, and leans against the alley wall, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a match.

Sherlock slips inside just as Missus Hudson is saying goodbye to Mister Chatterjee. She comes back into the kitchen to find him sitting back on the counter where she left him, none the wiser.

“All right. Now, how about we cut out some fun shapes and pop them in the oven. This is the last of them,” she says.

“I think we need more reindeers,” Sherlock says diplomatically, and reaches for the tin cut-out with antlers. “Then after can we watch the Pirate movie?”

“Of course, love.” Missus Hudson smiles, and kisses the top of his head, and together they finish stamping out the rest of the cookie dough.

Finally, after the last of the cookies have finished baking, and they each have their respectable plates of Christmas trees, candy canes, and reindeer, they settle in to watch _Treasure_ Island on Missus Hudson’s settee.

There is a humble fire flickering in the wood burning stove, and Missus Hudson stretches her stocking feet out on the ottoman. Every so often, Sherlock sneaks a cookie into his pocket, and pretends to watch the movie, when he’s actually keeping an eye on her. Sure enough, it’s not long before she drops off into sleep, hands folded peacefully in her lap as the movie continues to murmur to itself.

Quietly, Sherlock hops off the cushions and creeps to the back door again, minding the squeaky floorboards, and holding the handle so it won’t latch when closed.

“Wiggy?” he calls, and after a moment, his friend comes around the corner, warily scanning the alley. Sherlock smiles, and pulls the smuggled cookies out from his trousers. “I brought these from you. I had to sneak them like a pirate. They’re loot, see?”

“Yeah, all right. Cap’n Shezza, is it?” Wiggy says, putting the loot cookies into his pocket and kneeling down in front of him. He ruffles Sherlock’s curls.

“How did you find me?” Sherlock asks, curious.

“After I called that clinic, I stuck around to see wot sort of doc they’d be bringing around fer ya. Imagine my surprise when this crippled bloke shows up and then not a minute later, barrels out of the house with you and into a bloody taxi!”

“That’s John!” Sherlock supplies, helpfully.

“Yeah, I figured as much after I tracked you down, finally. Man looked like he was on a warpath, but then I seen how he is, and I figured he can’t be any worse than the bastard you was living with. He’s not, is he? I mean…he doesn’t hurt you, right?”

“John? No, never,” Sherlock says emphatically. “He helped my arm get better, and he says we are going to live together and that I never have to go back to Mister Hope ever again, forever.”

Wiggy sighs in relief, a smile that’s not a smile coming to his face, and Sherlock’s happiness is dampened somewhat. “That’s great.”

“Are you going to be staying here, now?” Sherlock asks hopefully.

“Ah. ‘Fraid not, Shez,” Wiggy says, and Sherlock’s smile disappears. “I gotta get back. They’s people who need me, and I can’t be away for very long. I’m just glad you are okay.”

“But…what if I need you too?” Sherlock says, eyes stinging with sudden tears. Wiggy was his only friend before John.

“C’mere you little bugger,” Wiggy says and sweeps him up in a sudden hug. “You’ll be all right, now. You got your John.”

“Will I ever see you again?” Sherlock says, lower lip trembling.

Wiggy pulls back, and flicks a tear off his cheek. “’Course. I mean, I expect you will, yeah. But I gotta get back to Greenwich. I just wanted to check up on you, and tell you if you ever need me you know you can always call that number I gave you. You still got it memorised?”

Sherlock nods, braving back the tears.

“Good lad,” Wiggy says. “You keep safe, all right? I’ll be around.”

“Okay,” Sherlock says, and Wiggy stands, giving him a fond, if not sad smile. He pulls a cookie out of his pocket and takes a bite. He winks. “Thanks for the cookies, Shezza.”

And then he walks down the alley and out of sight.

Sherlock stands there feeling oddly empty, fiddling with the scarf around his neck. The wind picks up a little, making him shiver, and he slips back inside to warm up by the fire.

Missus Hudson is still asleep, and because the fire is dying down, Sherlock carefully takes the colourful wooly blanket from the back of the small sofa, and spreads it out over her. He crawls up beside her, covering himself with the corner of the blanket, and finishes watching _Treasure Island,_ head against her shoulder.

***

He didn’t mean to fall asleep, but the next thing Sherlock knows, John is running a hand through his hair, and peering down at him where Sherlock is snuggled up on Missus Hudson’s sofa. He smiles at Sherlock, and Sherlock smiles back.

“Well, I just think it’s wonderful you are doing this for yourself, John,” Missus Hudson says as she finishes putting the rest of the cookies on a plate to wrap in cling film. “I know I’ve said so, but if I may, I am so proud of you.”

“Yes, thank you Mrs. H,” John says. To Sherlock he makes a silly face and rolls his eyes, and Sherlock grins. He sits up even more, and rubs his eyes. “Did you have a good time with Mrs. Hudson?”

Sherlock nods, and then remembers saying goodbye to Wiggy. It causes a little pain to hit him in the chest, and he sucks in a small breath. John tilts his head in question, but Sherlock just shakes his head and holds out his arms. John takes the cue, and lifts him up in a hug where he instantly buries his face into the side of John’s neck.

“Well, thank you so much for watching Sherlock as always, Mrs. Hudson. We’ll be going; supper’s not going to eat itself,” John says, hefting Sherlock a little higher.

“Of course,” Missus Hudson says, handing John the plate of cookies. “See you later, Sherlock, and eat all of your supper like a good lad.”

Sherlock nods, and dutifully leans forward so Missus Hudson can place a kiss on his cheek. John sets him on the floor, and hands the cookies to Sherlock.

Together they climb the stairs to their flat, John placing the bag of takeaway on the table, and Sherlock doing the same with the cookies.

Sherlock stands in the middle of the kitchen feeling a little lost as John putters about getting the food ready.

He recognises he is upset because of Wiggy, but it’s more than that, and he can’t figure out why he feels just… _more._ More than sad. It fills him up like sadness does, but more hollow and all over. He feels like he’s wearing a heavy coat with all of the pockets filled with rocks, or like he is wearing a pair of too-tight shoes that he can’t take off. Shivering, he loops the scarf more securely around his neck, not wanting to take it off just yet, and slips out of the kitchen to his room.

Sherlock’s room is tidy, simply because he doesn’t really have a lot of stuff, and this is the biggest room he’s ever had so his few things don’t take up a whole lot of space. But even if he did have lots of stuff, he would keep it ordernised because it’s _his room_ and he’s allowed to make decisions on where things get to go and how, when before he never got to have a say so. 

The only thing that remains messy is Sherlock’s bed, where he currently fashioned himself a nest of blankets and the things he had that were the most important to him. Namely, Geoffrey, the book Molly gave him on insects, his scarf, and the skull, Billy. It’s this object that draws him, and he takes it out from under one of John’s fluffy jumpers, holding it close to his chest.

His friend, Billy. Billy who spotted him through the fence playing with a glass bottle in the dirty backyard at Mister Hope’s, and gave him his first toy: a fairly new stuffed bumblebee that was mean for dogs, only with the squeaker removed. Who teased him and said he reminded him of a scruffy chocolate lab he used to have and called Shezza. Who was the first person before John to look at him with kindness. Billy Wiggins who told him about Peter Pan, a boy that never grows up, and his Lost Boys that he takes care of always, and how if Sherlock wanted he could be a Lost Boy, too. 

He was the first person before John who wanted to take him away from the bad things, and now he probably wasn’t ever going to see him again.

He feels like crying again, but he stops himself. He shouldn’t be sad about Wiggy because Wiggy isn’t sad about him. He’s happy that Sherlock got out because of him, and is glad he is safe and being protected by John. John, who isn’t Peter Pan, but for once like a _real_ Papa and said he would always be there for Sherlock and gave him the scarf that means he will never leave.

And that’s why he shouldn’t be sad because Wiggy could see it.

Because, for once in his life, Sherlock isn’t a Lost Boy anymore, and Wiggy had smiled at him — _for him_ — when he said goodbye.

“Sherlock! Soup’s on!” John calls from downstairs a moment later, causing the heaviness Sherlock feels to disappear.

He makes his way down the stairs with the skull still in his arms, and crawls up onto the books that make up his booster seat at the table. He sets the skull next to his plate of curry noodles with peanuts on top.

John turns around from the counter with his own plate and a cup of tea, pausing briefly at the sight of the skull before he takes his own seat.

“Billy hungry, then?” John asks, hiding a grin in his teacup.

Sherlock digs in, trying to use his chopsticks like the waiter at the Peking Duck. “He’s not called Billy anymore.”

“Why not?” John says, munching on his own noodles after giving Sherlock his extra peanuts.

“He doesn’t need that name,” Sherlock says, giving up and taking a chopstick in each hand and twirls the noodles like Missus Hudson’s knitting needles. He manages to scoop some up that way, and takes a big bite.

“What am I to call him now, then?”

“His name is John,” Sherlock says, and he is so focussed on getting his chopsticks to cooperate, he misses John’s fond, yet bemused smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably not at edited as per usual, but I am stinkin' tired, so I will get back to it. Thanks for reading, loves.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is quite long, friends. There was a lot I tried to accomplish in it, and I still didn't get to where I thought I wanted to. I am happy with it though. It just means this story is going to be a little longer than I anticipated. Thank you all for your wonderful support in this little thing, I feel truly blessed by your kind words.
> 
> John feels, fluff, and Mycroft ahoy, dears.
> 
> xxHoney

John sits in the plush armchair in his therapist’s office, staring out at the bleak December rain through the wide windows. Christmas was coming up in a few days, and he still needed to get a turkey…

“John?” Dr. Thompson says, jolting him back to the present. “You’re doing it again.”

“Sorry, what?” He fidgets in his seat, straightening his posture like an errant school boy caught out in Catholic school.

“Any time I try to ask you about a topic you’d rather not talk about, you disengage from the conversation entirely.”

“Well, you could try changing the subject,” John says cheekily before he can stop himself.

Thompson smirks, but it’s a rather patient look, all things considered. “That sarcasm is just another defense mechanism,” he says with a tone of voice alluding to the fact that John’s antics are nothing new to him. “I get paid for the hour either way. But if you want this to work, you’ve got to try a little harder.”

“No, you’re right. Sorry,” John says, properly chastened. “You were saying?”

“I asked you about your mother,” he says, his tone softening. “How old were you when she died?”

“You mean when she killed herself?” John says, the twisted violent thing in his chest breaking open suddenly.

“You’re still angry about that,” Thompson says. It’s not a question.

“Of course I bloody —” he cuts himself off, breathing through his nose for a count of ten. “I don’t want to talk about my mother.”

“You’ve got to talk to someone about this, John. Sooner or later.”

“You just wrote ‘still has trust issues’ on your paper,” John says, avoiding the matter.

“And you’re reading my writing upside down. See what I mean? These walls are never going to come down on their own.”

“Well given what happened with my last therapist —” John starts.

“I am aware about the breach you experienced in privacy, and I don’t know how many times I can tell you that there is no sum of money that could make me violate that trust with my patients. But I can’t prove it to you. You are just going to have to take my word for it,” Thompson says, snapping his notebook shut perfunctorily, staring at him.

John blinks in surprise. “Are we…done?”

“That’s up to you. Like I said, I get paid either way,” he says pointedly, taking a sip of his tea, eyebrows raised over the rim.

“You’re not like other therapists I’ve met,” John mutters even though he’s just a little impressed in spite of himself. Here was this man, affable, unassuming, and most likely half John’s age, with a maddening ability to cut right to the quick of John’s bullshit. He continues to look at John expectantly. “Dr. Thompson…”

“Please, call me Daniel. I feel like we should start over,” he says. In a show of good spirit, he tears out the page of notes he was just working on, and throws it in the bin behind him. It’s got one of those novelty basketball hoops over it, and it makes John snort. God, he felt old.

“Daniel. Right, yes. I’ve got trust issues, and a temper, and PTSD, and I would appreciate it if we didn’t talk about my mother quite yet,” John says, taking the olive branch.

Daniel nods, crossing an ankle over his knee and curling his knuckles into a loose fist as he rests his cheek against them. “What would you like to talk about?”

The question is so odd given his experiences with therapy it surprises a laugh out of him. “What, seriously?” Daniel shrugs, a mild smile on his face as if they were just having a friendly chat in a café or something.

“Sometimes we don’t need to be psychoanalysed. We just need someone with an ear to listen.”

“From therapist to Agony Aunt?” John says wryly. 

“If you like. I feel like taking it easy on you today,” Daniel rejoins.

“Oh good,” John snorts. Daniel grins, and John can’t help but grin back. “If your goal is to make me feel like an arse, then you might be on to something.”

“Really? Well then it must be Christmas,” he says.

“Just continue to be a little prat, and your already half way there,” John says without rancor. “I mean, Christ I could be your father.”

“I’m not as young as I look,” Daniel says. “I just act it. Age is a state of mind, really.”

“Right, okay Yoda. Drink your ginger tea and get back to me in a decade when you’ve caught up to the rest of us and your joints are falling apart,” John says.

“I’m thirty-six, you codger,” Daniel says.

“Wh — really?” John says, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. “Got any more of that ginger tea?”

Daniel laughs shaking his head, but he gets up and pulls a mug off the shelf anyway. He pours water into the mug from his electric kettle and lets the herbal tea steep, the bright fragrance filling the quaint office. He hands it to John, and flops down into the armchair affecting the same casual posture as before.

They sit there in companionable silence for a few minutes, sipping from their respective cups. The tea isn’t half bad, and it warms his hands where he cradles the mug between his palms. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s now more at ease since Daniel got rid of the notebook, but before he knows what he’s doing, words start to tumble out of his mouth.

“I never wanted to be a father,” he says looking back out the window over Daniel’s shoulder. “I swore after all that my Old Man put me and my sister through that I would never have kids. I always figured it was selfish of my parents to have us.”

“Were they young when they had you?”

“Yeah. My mum was barely twenty when I came along. God, they had no idea what they were doing," he says bitterly. 

"It's been my experience that no one does. Life, in general, is a day-by-day thing."

"That's a generic platitude if I've ever heard one," John says, rankled.

"Ah, but it only irritates you because it holds up. Would you say you are any more knowledgeable or prepared than your own parents when it comes to Sherlock?" Daniel asks.

"I'm not a bloody abusive bastard, if that's what you mean," John snaps, his defenses rising again.

"That wasn't the question, John. I only asked if it was fair to assume your parents should have had it all figured out simply for your sake."

“Now you’re starting to piss me off,” John says, breathing through his nose.

“Oh shut _up,_ John!” Daniel says, snapping out of his aloof posture, his face suddenly avid, hands tense on the armrests. “I’m _supposed_ to piss you off, yeah? Now, answer the bloody question!”

“YES, alright?!” John explodes. “Yes, they were supposed to be better! Goddammit, they were being irresponsible arseholes bringing children into the world when they were only children themselves!” He gesticulates wildly, some of the hot tea sloshing over the brim of his cup. The burn of it hitting the back of his hand clears the red from his vision, and he curses vividly before setting it down on the small table in front of him.

Daniel gets to his feet, opening the small fridge near his desk and taking out a can of soda. He hands it to John, who takes it grudgingly before pressing it against his heated skin.

“John,” Daniel starts again, his voice low and mindful. “I am not trying to give you the wrong impression, because you’re right. You are absolutely right. They _should_ have been better for you and Harriet. That’s what all parents strive towards; being better every day.”

“Do you have children?” John asks gruffly.

“I have two, yes,” Daniel replies. He nods to the book case where a photo of two girls with brown hair and green eyes like his smile out of the frame. “Isabela, and Juliet. They are my life.” John purses his lips, looking away. “The point I am trying to make, is that it is impossible for us as parents to have everything figured out. I mean, suddenly you are in charge of this tiny human’s physical and emotional needs when — and I don’t know about you but — half the time I can’t even tell my own arse from my elbow on a good day.” Daniel chuckles at his own joke, and John finds the corner of his mouth twitching despite it not even being that funny.

“On the flip side of that coin, however, it’s also not fair for us as children to expect _our_ parents to be infallible when it is clear they are so terribly flawed.”

“I never — I never wanted them to be perfect,” John croaks out. “I just wanted them to be parents.”

Daniel nods, easing forward in his armchair, hands clasped together. “You were let down in a big way as a child, John. No one is begrudging you the anger you must feel. But they are a part of you. They shaped who you are for better or for worse, and whether or not you want to be, you are their son, and with that come all those pesky demons you try to shut away in boxes. But what you don’t realise is this: if you don’t let go of the hurt you sustained as a boy, it will end up seeping into the relationship you are trying to forge with Sherlock.

“You’re so afraid of repeating what your father did to you, that you will never stop seeing Sherlock as anyone other than yourself. And then when you do make a mistake, when you do let him down — and you will if you haven’t already — the failure and the fear will paralyse you. And then where would Sherlock be?”

John swallows hard, finally looking up at Daniel. “I thought you said you were going to take it easy on me?” he says weakly.

“I lied,” Daniel says, eyes full of guileless compassion when he smiles softly. He sits back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap.

John takes a deep breath, hands shaking.

“My mother killed herself when I was nine years old, and Harry was seven. She poisoned herself with her own insulin, and I have never forgiven her, and I am not sure if I ever will. And I can admit that I am angry, all the time — always have been. And without that anger, I don’t know who I am. Who I should be. For Sherlock.”

“This, right here John. This is a start,” Daniel says, and John lets out a broken laugh, wiping a hand over his face. “It’s a start.”

* * *

John decides to walk the twelve blocks from his therapist’s office back to the flat. His leg is giving him a little trouble, and he figures the exercise will be good for it.

The rain has let up, thank goodness, but the sky looks heavy and dark, and John wonders if they will actually get a bit of snow in time for Christmas. He wonders if Sherlock has ever seen snow, and muses that maybe he does have a subject to write about in an online blog after all.

When Daniel suggested it, John had dismissed the notion entirely. No matter how you put a spin on it, it was basically like keeping a _diary_ and he most definitely was not a fourteen-year-old girl, thank you very much. 

Besides, he’s so sick of himself on a daily basis, why would he keep a sodding historical record of his petty thoughts? Isn’t that what a therapist is for? Daniel said having an outlet such as writing would help sort John’s residual anger and help him come to grips with all that’s happened to him. It makes sense John supposes, yet he can’t help but remain dubious.

Although, writing about Sherlock wouldn’t be so bad. Like a scrapbook of sorts.

The thought surprises him so badly that he actually stops dead in his tracks on the pavement. _A scrapbook._ How was this his life now? Three months ago, the words ‘John Watson’ and ‘scrapbooking’ belonging together in the same sentence was utterly absurd, and now…well he could always sign up for a Mummy Message Forum, couldn’t he?

A giddy, ridiculous feeling swells up within him, and John suddenly finds himself laughing. Whether or not it’s some sort of catharsis from all of the emotional upheaval of the past two hours, John can’t deny that his laughter is taking on a slightly desperate edge to it, and he just might be attracting attention. Which only makes him laugh harder, and he has to catch is breath against the wall of a shop building before he can string two coherent thoughts together that didn’t start the cycle of hysterics all over again.

“Scrapbooking. Christ,” he gasps, picturing the tawdry stickers and bizarrely shaped scissors Harry used to use to cut out photos when she had picked up the hobby as a teenager. His giggles abruptly stop when he realises that he actually doesn’t have a single picture of Sherlock in his possession.

Well, that just wouldn’t do.

With this sobering thought, he marches up to the next newsstand he comes to and purchases five disposable cameras as well as a packet of M&M’s for good measure.

***

“Sherlock? Mrs. Hudson?” John calls down the hall to 221A, shutting the street door with his foot.

“Up here!” comes the chorus of voices from upstairs. John tosses his jacket over the banister, before jogging up the stairs with the shopping he picked up on the way. He can hear the telly, shaking his head when he recognises _Treasure Island_ playing again for the umpteenth time. (He’s going to wear out the tape at this rate, and John figures he will have to replace it with a DVD copy before long.)

The sight that greets him when he pushes open the sitting room door is a jovial one, and has him grinning from ear to ear.

Mrs. Hudson has procured a wiry Christmas tree from somewhere and set it up in the corner in front of the window. It’s quite a sad looking tree, lopsided and shedding pine needles despite the fact it was plastic. However, it looks cheery enough, especially since it is done up with the fairy lights already.

“Hi, John!” Sherlock pipes. He beams at John from his position in Mrs. Hudson’s arms as she hoists him up to hang a shiny red bauble on one of the higher branches. “Mrs. Husdon got us a Christmas tree!”

“I see that,” John chuckles, and Mrs. Hudson sets him down on the floor. He runs to John full tilt, and slams into his knees with a hug that has John stumbling back slightly.

“I missed you.”

John strokes a hand through his hair before scooping him up into a hug himself. “Thank you, Mrs. H. You didn’t have to do that.” He’s a little chagrined that he didn’t think of it himself so close to the date. But there’s Mrs. Hudson again, his magnanimous saviour as always.

“Nonsense, dear,” Mrs. Hudson says with a smile, cheeks rosy. She finishes up with the last of the red baubles. “This was just collecting dust in my hall cupboard. I’ve gone to my sister’s the past few years, and this year it just seemed too much of a bother to set it up in my own flat when there’s no one to truly enjoy it.” She comes over and picks the shopping up off the floor where he set it, and commences to put the groceries away. He learnt early on not to make a fuss when Mrs. Hudson wants to make a fuss over them, so he lets her in silence despite her claims that she really wasn’t their housekeeper. “Show John what we did, love.”

Sherlock wriggles until John sets him back on the floor, and grabs John around the wrist, tugging him towards the tree.

“I helped Mrs. Husdon —”

“Hudson,” John corrects mildly.

“— Hud-son put the branches on, and put the base together with these plastic feet, and we fluffed the branches up to look like a real tree, and then we had to untangle the fairy lights!”

“Really?” John asks with the right amount of enthusiasm as Sherlock takes him around the tree.

“Yeah! And when we plugged them in they didn’t work at first so we had to find the rotten bulb, and it would have taken a long time I think, but I found it before she did because it was a bit black on one side from being burneded out, she said. And I got to put the new one in and look, John!” Sherlock says, eyes wide and filled with awe as he looks up at the tree. “ _Look._ ”

“I’m looking,” John chuckles.

“Isn’t it the most beautiful thing you ever saw?” Sherlock says, voice full of the reverence especially reserved for children during this time of year. John swears that his heart can’t possibly grow any bigger for this little boy, but it sure does try when he looks into Sherlock’s rapt face.

“It really is,” John says, holding Sherlock’s little hand.

“Show him what else you did,” Mrs. Hudson says taking a seat in the red armchair with a cup of tea. Her eyes twinkle knowingly in the soft firelight.

“Oh!” Sherlock exclaims, and runs into the kitchen. John watches him stand on tiptoes and snatch something off the counter. “Close your eyes!” Sherlock commands. 

“What? Me?” John says, sitting down across from Mrs. Hudson. He scoots the armchair forward a little to avoid being poked in the back of the head by a bristly tree branch.

“Yes, it’s a surprise!” he hollers. Mrs. Hudson chuckles a little deviously into her tea cup, and mystified, John complies.

“Okay. They’re closed.”

“Swear?”

“By Long John Silver’s beard,” John replies. John hears Sherlock’s little feet patter back into the sitting room. He can feel him hovering in front of him, little whuffs of breath coming slightly from his left.

“Go on, love,” Mrs. Hudson says.

“Hold out your hands,” Sherlock instructs. John complies obediently, and feels a smooth, flat object placed in his palm.

“Can I open my eyes now?”

“No, guess first,” Sherlock says, pressing into his knee. John smiles when he can feel him squirm with excitement. He rubs the object between his fingertips, frowning.

“O…kay, um…” John says. It’s round with a series of ridges on one side, and a piece of yarn run through the other. “What is this?” John chuckles.

“Open your eyes!” Sherlock says, clearly not patient enough to let John try to figure it out. He looks down at his hand, and sees that it’s a little baked plaster ornament in the shape of what else — a skull.

“Look at that!” John says. It even has oval shaped divots for eye sockets painted black, and little flat teeth at the bottom. “Did you make this all by yourself?”

“Mmhm. Mrs. Hud-son helped me roll it out flat, and then she put it in the oven, and when it came out I got to paint it.” Sherlock pokes his finger into one of the eye sockets to demonstrate. He turns it over. “And see? I asked her to help make sure I spelled everything right.”

John blinks, staring at the words carved into the back. In Sherlock’s wobbly handwriting it says, _meRRy chRist-mas john Love sheRLock,_ followed by the date.

“Do you like it?” Sherlock asks, suddenly shy.

“I love it,” John says, voice a little gruff, and Sherlock gives him a radiant smile. “Come here.” He pulls Sherlock into his lap, hugging him fiercely. Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s neck in an equally tight embrace before pulling back. He smiles, and plants a big kiss on John’s cheek. 

“Boys,” Mrs. Hudson sing-songs. Their heads turn in tandem, and she snaps a picture with one of the cameras John bought, the brief flash leaving a trail of spots in his vision. Sherlock squawks in surprised fascination. “I hope you don’t mind. I found them in one of the bags, and took the liberty.”

John laughs, bubbling over with so much happiness he can’t possibly contain it anymore. Sherlock slides off his lap, trying to get a better look at the camera. “What would we ever do without you, Mrs. Hudson?”

“Oh, you,” Mrs. Hudson blushes, handing the camera to Sherlock. He brings it up to his face on the wrong side of the view finder, more copying Mrs. Hudson than actually knowing how, and presses the button. He frowns when nothing happens. “Here, love,” Mrs. Hudson helps him wind it up, showing him the little dial in the corner. Sherlock watches, and brings the camera up again, pointing it at John. The flash goes off with a little _click-snap!_ and Sherlock laughs his bright, effervescent laugh.

“I took your picture, John!”

“Well done, Bones,” John says, and Mrs. Hudson claps her hands. John gets up, lifting Sherlock and planting him on his hip. “Help me hang this.” He holds the ornament by its string.

Sherlock winds the camera up and snaps a picture of the tree, expression adorably serious, before he tucks it into the crook of his arm. He turns his attention to the ornament, and puts a finger up to his lips. His head swivels to the tree and back in contemplation, before he declares very scientifically, “ _There,”_ pointing to a space in the centre.

John agrees, and loops the yarn over a sturdy looking branch. He steps back so they can look at the tree in all its glory together. Sherlock takes another picture, and sighs, tipping his head against John’s. Mrs. Hudson comes to stand beside them.

“Lovely. Just lovely,” she says, folding her hands in front of her.

“What do you say?” John prompts, kissing Sherlock’s temple.

“Thank you Mrs. Hud-son!” Sherlock says on cue.

“You’re welcome, little love,” Mrs. Hudson says, tugging his chin. “Well, I’ll let you boys to your evening. Just shout if you need me.”

John pecks her on the cheek, and she squeezes his free hand before making her way downstairs.

The credits to _Treasure Island_ are rolling, and the fire is crackling in the grate, and John is more at peace than he has ever been in his life with Sherlock in his arms staring at their Christmas tree in wonderment.

He never wants to forget this memory; the wistful look on Sherlock’s face. He wants to cherish it always, and keep it tucked close to his heart.

He smiles ruefully to himself. Perhaps a scrapbook isn’t such a silly idea after all.

***

John is in the middle of washing up the dishes from supper when Sherlock tugs his trouser leg.

“This one is empty,” he says, holding up another camera.

“Already?” Johns says. Sherlock nods, curls bobbing, and gazes at him with a hopeful expression. John sighs in mock exasperation before wiping off his hands. “Put it with the others,” he tells him, and goes to retrieve the fourth out of the five he bought.

He turns around from the counter to find Sherlock gazing at his little prizes all lined up on the table. “When can we take them in?” he asks.

“Soon,” John says, handing him the new camera. “Now this is the last one. We have to save one for Christmas Day, all right?”

“Mmkay,” Sherlock agrees, resuming his scientific inquiry of photographing everything in their flat, starting with another picture of John. He wanders back out into the sitting room, absorbed in his little experiment.

Before John can get back to the washing up, the buzzer rings.

Frowning, he looks down at his wristwatch. It was going on nine o’clock, and quite late for visitors. It rings again.

“Sherlock. I’ll be right back, okay?” John calls out before he ducks into the hall. Warily, he descends the stairs telling himself he is being paranoid for wanting to take his gun to answer the bloody door.

The second he opens it, however, he thinks that his paranoia is warranted.

“What are you doing here?” he snarls.

“Good evening to you too, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft Holmes says, tapping the tip of his umbrella against the stoop. “May I come in?”

“What for?”

“Because it’s cold out, and the polite thing to do when one has a guest is to invite him in and offer him a cup of tea.”

“Yes, for a _guest._ You’re not welcome.”

“How about a show of good will, Doctor? I am doing you a favour by showing up now instead of Christmas Day, wouldn’t you agree? I have it on good authority you are planning a small ‘get together’ with close friends and relatives, and despite what you think about me, I do know when I am imposing.” John scoffs at this, but Mycroft ignores the derision. “What with the Korean elections so close…well. Suffice it to say there is no need to worry that I will darken your doorstep on that happy day.”

“I wasn’t worried,” John bites out even through he is inwardly cringing at himself for how childish it sounds.

“Of course you weren’t,” Mycroft says, giving him a flat, sour smile. “Now, let me in. I have a gift for Sherlock.” He pats his breast pocket.

“I’ll give it to him,” John says, holding out a hand.

Mycroft clenches his jaw at John’s pugnacity, looking off and down to the side. He huffs a weary sigh out through his nose, the action seeming to deflate him somewhat. Suddenly, he looks both younger and older than his twenty-nine years, the tension around his eyes and mouth familiar to John on a visceral level. It’s an expression he finds on his own face when the reality of his responsibilities weigh heavy on him, the evidence bleeding through the cracks when his defenses are wearing thin.

“I’m not trying to threaten you, Dr. Watson. I know I can be…heavy handed at times. A tactic that works quite well in politics, but not so well in other scenarios I have come to realise. However, I am asking you as one gentleman to another, if you will let me see my brother.”

“And if I refuse?” John says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Then I will have no choice but to leave, if that is really what you wish.”

“It is,” John says abruptly. Much to his astonishment, Mycroft actually nods stiffly, and adjust his collar.

“Very well. Sorry to intrude.”

And before John can blink properly due to his ogling, Mycroft is descending the few steps to the pavement, no doubt headed back whatever dark enigmatic place from whence he came. It’s in that moment, and in the defeated set of the younger man’s shoulders despite his regal posture when John realises he only wanted to see if Mycroft would actually heed his own words. Because deep down there is a part of John that aches in some sort of twisted mutual capacity. He knows what it’s like to be that worried, older sibling with the urge to defend and protect. And years from now he doesn’t want Sherlock looking at him with betrayal in his eyes, asking why his only brother was denied to him due to John’s own insecurities and bloody-mindedness. So, it is with much ambivalence he calls out to the man before he can get too far.

“Mr. Holmes! Wait.” Mycroft pauses on the pavement, in the middle of putting on his leather gloves. He looks back a John, inclining his head. “Wait. Just…come in for a cup, and see Sherlock. I’ve no right to keep you from meeting him.”

Mycroft regards John for a moment as if his acquiescence is more unprecedented than his refusal. He nods, coming to some sort of conclusion, and offers his hand to John conceding the tentative truce John is willing to accept.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“Call me John,” he says, showing Mycroft into the flat. “Let me just —” he indicates the stairs, “tell him he has a visitor.”

“What have —? Have you told him anything about me?” Mycroft asks, voice going strangely quiet.

“Not as such,” John says rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t really know what to tell him, to be honest. This whole thing is a bit…”

“Delicate?” Mycroft suggests.

“Yeah. Yeah,” John says nodding. “Er, feel free to hang your coat. I’ve got the fire going so it’s a bit warm up there,” he says, indicating the peg by the door. Mycroft nods, removing his claret coloured scarf, and John is grateful he’s allowing him to take a moment to prepare Sherlock alone. He takes the steps two at a time, trying not to let his nerves get the best of him.

When he enters the sitting room, the endearing sight of Sherlock surrounded by a dozen or so open text books loosens the tension in his bad shoulder. This was _their_ home; _their_ safe haven that Mycroft Holmes was about to be standing in. They could handle this.

Sherlock shuffles forward on his knees to one particular book open to a page about wooly mammoths. He raises the plastic camera to his face, and snaps a picture. John kneels down next to him.

“John! Look!” Sherlock says pointing to the photograph. “These elephants have _fur.”_

“I see that,” John smiles. He moves the book to the side and grasps Sherlock’s free hand. He brings it up to buss his knuckles with his lips, more so to rally his own courage. “There’s someone here who wants to meet you, Bones.”

Sherlock looks at him, expression shuttering minutely. “Who is it?”

“Do you remember the nice man who gave us a ride after that day in the park?”

Sherlock frowns, nodding. His eyes flicker warily over to the door where Mycroft Holmes has made it up the stairs and is standing just on the threshold of the sitting room.

“He’s not a nice man,” Sherlock whispers.

“He’s…” John falters, unsure how to respond. “He’s not a bad man.”

“You don’t like him,” Sherlock says. It sounds a little like a question, and so John tugs him closer.

“That day was a tough day, yeah?” John says, trying to find the easiest way to convey his treacherous relationship with the British Government. “I was agitated, and scared for you. Regardless, he helped us, and he wants to get to know you.” John looks over his shoulder, and nods at Mycroft.

Hesitating only slightly, Mycroft makes his way into the sitting room, stopping about a foot away at first before coming the rest of the way and hunkering down into a graceful crouch so he is eye-level with Sherlock.

“Hello, Sherlock. My name is Mycroft Holmes,” he says, extending his hand. Sherlock looks down at it dubiously, and doesn’t take it. After a moment, Mycroft lets his hand fall to the side, and for all his stoic persona, even he can’t hide his disappointment. He’s about to get back to his feet when Sherlock takes a tentative step towards him. He looks at John for reassurance and John smiles encouragingly.

Sherlock reaches out his hand, and Mycroft stills just as it comes in contact with his cheek. John ties to hide his grin at the abashed look on Mycroft’s face, and he rues the fact that there is no way he could possibly take a picture without the other man noticing.

Sherlock tilts his head to the side getting a good look at Mycroft, and brings his other hand to his face as well, framing it in his small palms. With his finger, he traces Mycroft’s eyebrows, and trails down his hawkish nose, resting the tip right in his philtrum.

“You’re last name is the same as my last name,” Sherlock says quietly.

“That’s right,” Mycroft says around Sherlock’s fingers.

“And your lips do the same thing as mine,” Sherlock says, dragging his finger down. “And your chin.”

“What would you deduce from this?” Mycroft says. He extends his own finger and brushes Sherlock’s right cheekbone in a sort of awkward reverence. John suddenly feels like _he’s_ the intruder, and looks away for a moment.

“Deuce?”

“ _De_ -duce,” Mycroft corrects. “It means to arrive at a fact or a truth by reasoning or logic.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says, angling his head to the other side and looking at Mycroft in a new light. Sherlock’s eyes rove over Mycroft’s face yet again, sudden understanding breaking over him like a wave. He takes a startled step back. “John?”

John nods, but makes no move towards him. “It’s all right.”

Warily, Sherlock turns back to Mycroft, brows knitting as he tries to process this new information. What ever conclusion he draws, he seems to accept it for the time being, and he stoops to pick up the disposable camera he left on the floor. He winds it up, and brings it up to his face.

He lowers it for a second. “Don’t move,” he tells Mycroft, pointing at him with a serious pout to his lips. John can’t help but laugh a little when Mycroft self-consciously adjusts his tie.

The flash pops off, and pleased, Sherlock tugs Mycroft’s wrist to sit cross-legged on the floor with him while he shows him the book with the wooly mammoth.

“I’ll make some tea,” John says, marveling at the sort of trust and acceptance children are inherently built with. Especially, he muses, this child who has been betrayed by the people who were meant to keep him safe. John couldn’t even muster up that kind of forgiveness, which as he discovered today, should have at least been tempered somewhat by time and loss. There’s a lot he could learn here, he thinks as he prepares the tea.

“ _Mammuthus primigenius,”_ Mycroft is saying when John walks back into the sitting room with two cups of tea. Sherlock is looking at Mycroft with rapt concentration. “Kingdom: Anamalia; Phylum: Chordata; Class: Mammalia.”

“I didn’t know how you take it, so there’s only milk. If you want sugar, help yourself,” John says, taking a seat in his armchair.

“This is fine, thank you,” Mycroft says, immediately setting the cup down on the floor next to him, concerned like he is with watching Sherlock as he flips through the book. John’s not offended, however. He understands how Sherlock can occupy all of one’s fascination.

“What about this one?” Sherlock says, placing the book in Mycroft’s lap.

“ _Aptenodytes fosteri._ More commonly known as the Emperor penguin.”

“Emperor penweng,” Sherlock says, nodding seriously while he brings the camera up to his face and snaps a picture. Mycroft goes to correct him, but thinks better of it and smiles a soft smile that he probably isn’t even aware of. John can relate to this, too.

“Do you like taking pictures, Sherlock?” Mycroft says, reaching into his breast pocket. He pulls out a sleek device — a mobile, John realises. It’s a fancy state of the art touch screen model, no doubt one that’s probably not even on the market yet, and it is incongruously encased in a squishy, neon green case. John immediately sees where this is going.

“I don’t think…” he starts, but trails off at Sherlock’s delighted giggle when Mycroft shows him how the camera works.

“The phone is loaded with a number of ebooks, and a few puzzle games I thought he might like. Oh, and your number is pre-programmed into his contacts so he can call you if he needs to.”

John scowls at this. He wants to know how Mycroft Holmes even has his number, but then thinks on how stupid that train of thought is when dealing with the man who practically invented all things ‘cloak-and-dagger.’ What he says instead is, “And your number as well, I’m guessing?”

“Yes. Should the need arise.”

“Presumptuous of you, isn’t it?” John says, trying not to sound put-out and most likely failing.

Mycroft gives him a tight smile, and John can feel the tentative truce between them fading. “Would you expect anything less, Doctor?”

John’s response is to scoff at this, getting to his feet. He trusts he doesn’t have to convey his point in the gesture.

“Ah,” Mycroft says, rising likewise, not even a wrinkle in his impeccable three-piece suit. “It seems as if I have worn out my welcome.” He looks down at Sherlock who stiffens where he sits, grasping the too-large mobile in his little fingers. He thrusts the device towards Mycroft, in a likely attempt to relinquish the gift before it is snatched away. It is a learned behaviour, and one that causes John's heart to ache. “That’s yours, Sherlock. You are meant to keep it.”

Sherlock only slams his eyes closed and shakes his head as if battling the cruelty of this concept. 

John kneels down, and clasps his thin shoulders so he will look at him. “Sherlock.”

“I don’t want it, John,” Sherlock says. “I don’t want it, I promise.”

John swallows, guilt making his throat tight when he realises he's the cause of Sherlock's distress. He clearly wants it more than anything, but having picked up on John’s disapproval, he feels like he’s not allowed.

“It’s a present, Sherlock. It’s perfectly all right to keep it. Look, it’s got that skoodo game you like just for you.” Sherlock searches John’s face, holding his breath as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing. After a moment, he finds the assurance he's looking for and he relaxes.

“Su-do-ku,” Sherlock corrects him with a weak smile. He holds the phone to his chest, looking down for a moment. “Are you sure?” His pale eyes flick over John’s shoulder to where Mycroft is standing.

“Absolutely,” John says.

Sherlock holds out his arms, and John picks him up.

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” Sherlock mumbles, still holding the phone close to him like a treasure.

“You are welcome, Sherlock. Happy Christmas, and I will be seeing you _very_ soon,” he says. The veiled threat in his words is not lost on John. “I’ll show myself out. Good evening, Dr. Watson.”

John doesn’t reply. He simply watches as the man makes his way out of the flat, only breathing a sigh of relief when he hears the street door close.

Sherlock copies his sigh, and tilts his head so it rests against John’s while he fiddles with his new toy. Something with little cartoon birds and a slingshot.

“How are you doing, kiddo?” John asks after a moment. Sherlock thinks, letting the screen of the phone go dark.

His brow furrows a little, and he plucks at the collar of John’s jumper. He sighs again, and doesn’t answer, but makes no move to be put down.

John dips his head to press against the crown of his messy curls, feeling as if he and Sherlock are on borrowed time.

A sudden draught of wind whistles through the creaking panes of glass, frigid and tainted with the East.

John shivers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured the little ornament Sherlock makes probably looks like [this.](https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcT-Gea7nYFFne5BBZZtgAldKDoVlEIMUsNaBWcl1DVn3Qe-KOd1xA) Innit cute?


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay for a positively Christmas-y chapter, loves! This one is my longest chapter by far, because I simply couldn't stop adding the fluff. Like the fluff level is over 9000, it's that fluffy. I made myself cry at one point, that's how ridiculous this chapter is. I was going to wait til Christmas, but I am terrible at waiting, so if you really want the full experience: DO NOT OPEN UNTIL XMAS.
> 
> But I won't hold it against you if you read it now. ;)
> 
> You all are incredible, and I want to wish you the very best holiday season. You are in my hearts. May God bless you and keep you.
> 
> xxHoney.

“John?” John creaks an eye open to see Sherlock’s bed rumpled silhouette standing next to him. 

“Wazzit, love?” he mumbles, closing his eyes again. He curls his arms under his pillow as he stretches out on his front.

“John,” Sherlock says again. “Open your eyes. Something’s happening outside.” John simply groans, and Sherlock moves closer to the bedside. Suddenly he feels cold little fingers trying to pry one of his eyelids open.

“Sherlock. I’m trying to sleep, and you need to be in bed,” John says. He tries to fix him with a no-nonsense look, but Sherlock remains gazing at him hopefully, his bumblebee tucked in his arms. He does this little wiggly dance thing, an excited smile on his face.

“But… _outside,_ John!”

“What’s outside?”

“Come _see,”_ Sherlock says, tugging John’s arm until it flops out from under the pillow. John groans again, but manages to pull himself upright on the edge of his bed. Sherlock waits patiently, pressing into the side of his leg and playing with his stuffed bee. John yawns, scratching his achy shoulder, and blinks down at the little boy. He’s adorable, but extremely infuriating at times.

As if sensing John’s grumpiness, Sherlock looks up at him, pursing his lips a little in contrition. Then he smiles meekly, and brings the bumble bee up to John’s cheek in a pantomime of a kiss, and all of John’s irritability sloughs off of him. He’s probably being manipulated, but John can’t find it in him to care too much when Sherlock climbs up into his lap and kisses him on his cheek for real. 

“Good morning!”

John glares at the alarm clock. _4:13._

“Barely,” John says.

“Merry Christmas!”

“Not yet. I need tea, and then you can show me what’s outside.”

“’Kay!” Sherlock pipes, and hops off John’s lap. His bare feet patter out into the sitting room, and John wonders idly where his socks went to. It is absolutely criminal how much energy he has at this god forsaken hour. John huffs and drags himself to his feet, tugging a random jumper over his head from the open drawer of his dresser. 

He makes a bee-line for the kitchen, boils the water, and waits for his tea to steep before he entertains thoughts of anything above basic human functioning. Only after a few rallying sips of the fragrant brew does he makes his way out into the chilly sitting room. The sight that meets him causes warmth to spread throughout his chest that has little to do with the tea.

Sherlock has climbed up on the desk shoved against the wall, his back pressed into the window frame, curled as close as he can get to the glass. He’s sitting cross-legged, his stuffed animal in his lap, quietly humming parts of different Christmas carols he’s picked up from Mrs. Hudson. John pushes off from where he is leaning against the door jamb and makes his way quietly across the cold floor. Sherlock turns at the sound of John approaching.

“John,” he whispers. “Look at how pretty.”

John leans over the desk to get a look at what has Sherlock so enraptured.

Outside, Baker Street is covered in a soft blanket of snow made pearlescent under the lamp light. It glitters and sparkles in its unmarred perfection, the hour much too early for any sort of traffic or snow plow, and it nearly takes John’s breath away. Although the brunt of the storm seems to be over, a few scattered flurries continue to fall against the still morning.

“Oh my god, I haven’t seen snow like this in years,” John says, taking another sip of his tea.

“Snow?” Sherlock says turning back to peer through the glass. “ _That’s_ what snow is?”

John grins. “That is, indeed, snow.”

“But…I thought it was only in And-ark-ita.”

John chuckles and snags a throw off the sofa. He wraps it around Sherlock’s shoulders to keep the draught from the window at bay. “Sometimes, if it’s cold enough, London gets snow too.”

“There’s so much of it!” John hums in agreement, and runs his hand through Sherlock’s hair. A thought occurs to him, and he grins.

“Do you want to go see?”

Sherlock’s head whips around so fast it’s almost comical. “Really? Can we?”

“Absolutely.” He holds out his hand for Sherlock to grasp. “Let’s go get your kit on. I believe Mrs. Hudson got you some good snow gear.”

Sherlock jumps off the desk, and all but drags John up the stairs, and for the life of him, John can’t imagine why he ever wanted to have a lie-in anyway.

***

Twenty minutes, two changes of snow trousers, and a fruitless search for mittens — which, in the end, turned into John ultimately sacrificing his gloves for the cause — _later,_ they are finally headed out into the frosty morning. 

Sherlock trembles with excitement, his smile so big and bright the sun would be envious if it was out, and John has to remind him to be quiet as they make their way down the stairs for Mrs. Hudson’s sake. He grips John’s hand tight, wiggling impatiently as John locks the door, and at long last they face the still landscape of perfect snow.

Sherlock doesn’t even wait until they are off the stoop before yanking off one of John’s oversized gloves and patting the powder at his feet. 

“It’s cold!” Sherlock proclaims, looking up at John. “And wet! See, John?” Sherlock brings the handful up to his mouth to taste it before holding it out to him. John nods, helping brush the snow off his hand, his fingers already turning red from the chill.

“It is very cold, Bones. And not good for eating,” John says, helping him get the glove back on. “Come on, let’s go down to the park.”

Sherlock shuffles along side John as they make the short walk to Regent’s, his boots crunching through the fluffy banks. Occasionally, he’ll stop and crouch down, swiping his hand through the snow and watching the flakes scatter in all directions. He giggles, gathering some in both hands before tossing it straight up in the air. He does it again, getting some on John, and John reaches down to scoop some up into a ball. He chucks it at Sherlock, and it hits him in his puffy blue coat.

Sherlock looks at him with a stunned expression, before breaking out into an enormous grin. He balls up some snow and throws it as hard as he can back at John, but John laughs and dodges it. 

“Hey!” Sherlock says gathering more snow and chasing after him, his feet slipping here and there as he attempts to run in boots he hasn't quite grown into yet. 

“Come and get me!” John says, throwing another snowball. This one hits Sherlock’s wooly stocking cap, and he sputters, laughing full on. He wrenches back his arm, and lobs the snowball in his hands at John, managing at last to hit him square in the chest. “Oof!” John says, and dramatically falls to the ground, clutching his heart.

“John?” Sherlock says, panting. John peeks out from his closed eyes, but continues to play dead. Sherlock warily comes closer. At the last second, John leaps up and tackles him around the waist tumbling them both back into the soft snow. Sherlock shrieks, his giggles bursting with unbridled joy, and John tickles him under the arms as best as he can through the heavy winter coat. “Stop! Stop, John!”

John relents, laughing almost as hard as Sherlock, and they both collapse on their backs breathing out great plumes of vapour as they catch their breath. John moves his arms and legs back and forth through the snow, and Sherlock watches him curiously for a moment before doing the same.

John levers himself up, and pulls Sherlock up as well. They both look down at their creations, and John lifts him into his arms. “Snow angels,” he murmurs, indicating their imprints in the snow.

“What’s a angel?” Sherlock asks, keeping his voice low to match John’s. Snowflakes start to fall again, and they don’t want to disturb the serenity of the early morning enfolding them like wings.

John thinks for a moment, not sure how exactly to answer his question.

Sherlock is far more intelligent than John can keep up with half the time. He isn’t prone to whimsical fantasy like other children are. Mrs. Hudson, unfortunately, learned this the hard way when trying to convince him of Father Christmas. He asked her so many questions, she finally gave up, chiding him for being so obstinate in that exasperated fond way she has. 

Later, Sherlock worried that he’d upset Mrs. Hudson, but he told John that Father Christmas what just too silly to believe in. He wondered why parents would lie to their kids when they would find out the truth eventually, and then he looked away and asked if it was bad of him to think like that. John reassured him, and pulled him into his lap. He explained that sometimes adults were silly, and for the most part they hoped that believing in Father Christmas would teach their kids good behaviour. When asked why other children believed so much instead of asking questions like he did, John just replied that sometimes the act of believing in something was greater than the object of your belief. When Sherlock asked why yet again, John didn’t have an answer.

And now John stares down at their misshapen angels in the snow, and the only thing he can think of is bleeding out on the desert sand and praying with every last fibre of his being for a God he didn’t believe in to send him an angel, to _Please, please let me live._

He didn’t think his prayer worked at the time. Being invalided, and bereft of the one thing that gave his life meaning — how was that a life worth living? London was a tomb just waiting for him to bloody give in already and finish what that bullet started, as far as he was concerned.

What he hadn’t considered was the timing of it all, and when he looks into Sherlock’s clear blue eyes, he understands, and suddenly he has an answer for them both.

“An angel is someone who saves you,” John says.

Sherlock gazes right back at him, and for once doesn’t ask why or how, because John can see that he understands probably better than anyone what it means to be saved — and for all that John feels helpless and unworthy as a parent, to Sherlock, he is that same light, that hope that John found in him from the start.

The realisation is a profound one, and John can feel his eyes stinging with a sudden swell of emotion. He closes them tight when Sherlock wraps his arms around his neck, and fights back the ridiculous tears. He holds Sherlock close, burying his face into the top of his head, and thinks that if there really is a God, and if He really is listening, then one more prayer won’t go amiss.

_Please, God. Let me keep him. Please._

“Merry Christmas, Papa,” Sherlock whispers into his ear, a secret — a _gift_ between the two of them.

“Merry Christmas, little one; I love you, and I always will.”

Soon after, the chill of the morning starts to get to them, and they head back to the flat where John immediately dresses them both in the warmest pairs of pyjamas he can find. They really should go back to sleep, but John plugs the Christmas tree in, and makes them both hot cocoa instead. He tugs the duvet off his bed, and they both settle in on the sofa to watch the multicoloured fairy lights blink and twinkle. For once, John is lost in the peace of it all, the typical barrage of thoughts running through his head blessedly quiet. 

Sherlock’s body grows gradually heavier against him until he eventually succumbs to sleep, and John takes the half-drunk mug of cocoa from his limp fingers before it spills. He sets it on their cluttered coffee table next to his, and wraps the duvet tighter around them both. Being careful not to wake Sherlock, John reclines length-wise on the sofa with Sherlock snuggled warmly against his chest. 

His eyes grow heavy just as the sky begins to lighten from velvet black to a grey timbre, the dawn heralding Christmas Day.

* * *

The sound of a text alert goes off, slightly muffled due to Sherlock’s new phone being currently crammed under the sofa cushions.

John chuckles as Sherlock whips towards the sound, the red bandana over his eyes tucked just above his ears. They look comically large this way, and John had to restrain himself from squandering too many pictures on the adorable sight when he first tied it for him.

“How close am I?” Sherlock asks in the general direction of John, touching his fingers to the cloth over his eyes.

“No peeking, or I’ll hide it all over again!” John says from his armchair.

“I’m not!” Sherlock says, snapping his hands back to his sides. John makes an unconvinced noise, and he darts a hand out, tugging Sherlock to him. Sherlock yelps in surprise, and then breaks out in a chorus of giggling when John begins to spin him around, disorientating him. “Hey!”

“There,” John says, steadying him a little when he stumbles back slightly. He pulls out his mobile, and taps out another text to Sherlock’s number. A moment later, the alert goes off again, the cheery bing sounding a lot more depressing from where it is being squashed.

Determined, Sherlock sets about in what he thinks is the vicinity of his toy, hands stretched out in front of him. He reaches the coffee table.

“Am I close?”

John fires off another text: _Getting warmer. ;)_

Sherlock gasps, skirting around the coffee table and all but pouncing on the sofa. John texts again, laughing when Sherlock plops to his knees, and stuffs his whole arm between the seat cushions in his haste.

 _“I got it!”_ Sherlock hollers, pulling the bright green gadget out of the sofa and brandishing it in the air. John immediately sees where this is headed, and intercepts Sherlock as he runs across the floor with the blindfold still on, clearly forgetting about the small step that divides the sitting room into two areas. He laughs his contagious belly-laugh when John swings him up into his arms and begins tickling him.

Sherlock shoves the blindfold onto his forehead, and holds the phone out to John. “Again!”

John chuckles, and is luckily saved by a pair of voices ascending the stairs.

“And do you know what I told him? I told him he could take a hike to Doncaster back to his _wife,_ and he better be prepared for a surprise inspection, because I know people in high places in the food and services bureau!” comes the sound of Mrs. Hudson’s indignant voice.

“Oh, _good_ for you, Martha!” comes another, the sound of which reminds John of a clucking hen. He’d only met her once, but it no doubt belongs to that of the infamous Marie Turner, fellow landlady/gossip/rival of Mrs. Hudson’s. “I always thought that Mr. Chatterjee was a scoundrel.”

Like a gaggle of geese, both women bluster into the flat, arms full of groceries, and one deep covered roaster — which is most likely the source of the sudden delicious waft of cooked meat filling the air.

“Hello, John dear,” Mrs. Hudson says, heading to the kitchen with the roaster. Her cheeks are flushed, but despite her previous implications about Mr. Chatterjee, she positively beams at the both of them. “I’ll just pop the roast in your oven to keep warm.”

“Roast?” John says.

“Hello, Dr. Watson!” Mrs. Turner says, sweeping him into a surprisingly strong, rosemary-scented embrace. She was what some would call the ‘huggy’ type. She pulls back, her mouth, holly red with too much lipstick, stretches into a wide smile. “And this must be your little boy Martha’s told me about!”

“Yes, Mrs. Turner, this is Sherlock,” John says, hitching Sherlock a little higher on his hip. “We both want to thank you for letting us use some of your grandson’s old things.”

A clatter of cockery comes from the kitchen, and alarmed, John tries to peer around Mrs. Turner’s impressive bouffant to see what his mad landlady is up to. Mrs. Turner doesn’t budge however, and instead pats him on the cheek, her eyes sparkling with something other than her gold eye shadow. He fervently hopes it’s not tears.

“You are such a good boy taking him in the way you did, Dr. Watson,” she says, her voice going all watery.

“Please, call me John,” he says, trying to be polite. A crash sounds a moment later, followed by a slamming cupboard.

“ _Such_ a good boy,” she continues to prattle.

At that moment, Sherlock brings his mobile up and snaps a picture of Mrs. Turner, the flash going off with a pop of light that has her blinking the spots out of her vision. John takes the opportunity to slip around her only to stop dead in his tracks at the sight.

The kitchen has completely been invaded in the matter of minutes by Mrs. Hudson. On every inch of the table, there are packages of nibbles waiting to be put on trays, potatoes waiting to be washed and peeled, and carrots waiting to be chopped. The counter tops are in a similar state with a cutting board and some very sharp looking knives at the ready, along with a colander, a whisk, and various other utensils he couldn’t name if his life depended on it. All four burners on the stove are going full blaze, one of which he recognises by the strong scent of mulling wine. Two more are covered, their contents unknown, and the last one, a giant stock pot, is already simmering merrily with water.

John blinks, abashed. If only there had been a Mrs. Hudson in every platoon, he’s positive the war would have ended ages ago with enough time for tea and biscuits before supper.

“Mrs. Hudson,” John recovers slightly. “What _is_ all this?”

“Mm?” she responds, just as Mrs. Turner pops in and adds two foil covered dishes to the fridge. Pies, if he were to guess. “Why, it’s our dinner of course.”

“I bought a turkey already.”

Mrs. Turner and Mrs. Hudson both glance at each other with a knowing smirk, before promptly breaking out into a gale of laughter.

“Oh, honey,” Mrs. Turner says, a hand pressed over her ample bosom. “You don’t do _turkey_ for Christmas dinner.”

“You don’t?” John says. For as long as he can remember, Christmas dinner always featured turkey.

“Perish the thought! Not if you plan on having Yorkshire pudding, which we are,” Mrs. Turner says.

“Yes, it’s all about textures and pairings, you understand,” Mrs. Hudson volleys.

“Roast is much more sumptuous for a special occasion, wouldn’t you agree, Martha?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“But…” John flounders. “I bought a turkey.”

“Which you haven’t even bothered to pull out of the package yet,” Mrs. Hudson says, shooting him an indulgent glance as she stirs what looks like the start of breadsauce in a saucepan. “When were you planning on feeding your guests? Midnight?” Mrs. Turner clicks her teeth at this, and sets about preparing some parsnips.

John looks at Sherlock, and Sherlock shrugs.

“Well…is there anything I can do to help?” John asks, knowing the answer already.

“We’ve it all sorted in here,” Mrs. Turner says. “Perhaps you and the little ducky can set the table?”

“Um. That _is_ the table.”

“Oh. A bit small isn’t it?” Mrs. Turner sniffs, eyeing the rickety surface on which she was chopping.

“John figured we would all eat campfire-style in the lounge,” Mrs. Hudson chimes in. “Isn’t that cosy?”

“Ye-es,” Mrs. Turner says in a derivative tone that suggests it isn’t cosy at all. “Martha, did I tell you my tenants are getting _married?”_ she says switching tack.

Taking his cue, John and Sherlock leave the ladies to their cooking and idle gossip, and John breathes a sigh of relief when they reach the sitting room. 

“Mrs. Turner wears a lot of colours,” Sherlock remarks.

“She does.”

“And she talks a lot, and when she smiles I can see lipstick on her teeth.”

“Er…”

“And she’s wearing a wig.”

“Best keep that one to ourselves, okay Bones?” John says trying to suppress a smile. Sherlock nods, bringing a hand up to his mouth to stifle his giggles.

“I like her, though,” Sherlock says, grinning, his round cheeks rosy. “She’s loud, and she takes up the whole room, and she’s silly.”

John gives him a puzzled smile. “Oh?”

“She doesn’t try to hide who she is. It’s easy to know her story. No secrets,” Sherlock says.

John hums, bemused. He feels a little guilty about being put-off by Marie Turner’s eccentric excessiveness, and wonders once more about the guileless innocence of children.

The door buzzer rings, and John sets Sherlock on the floor to which he immediately scampers off towards the tree to gaze longingly at the small stack of presents. John had taken them out of their hiding place earlier that day, and set them under the tree in front of Sherlock all without a word as if this was an everyday sort of thing. Sherlock didn’t ask questions, but he investigated the three colourfully wrapped gifts with all the seriousness of a proper detective. Smiling fondly at the memory, John jaunts down the steps to answer the door.

“Molly!” he greets warmly, unable to stop himself from giving her a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“Happy Christmas, John!” she says blushing a pretty pink. “I’ve brought decorations, just some crackers and paper crowns and such. I was going to bring wine but I didn’t know which everyone prefers so…” she tapers off, flustered, and John helps her with the bags.

“This is brilliant, Molly, really,” John says, and he offers to take her coat and technicolour scarf. He gestures for her to go ahead and follows her up to the flat. A chorus of squawking assaults them in the direction of the kitchen, and Molly raises an eyebrow. “We’ve got the Christmas Dinner Brigade. I would steer clear from the kitchen at all costs, if I were you.”

“Noted,” Molly says laughing a little. “I wouldn’t even know the first thing about cooking anyway. I’m afraid I’m quite rubbish at anything that doesn’t involve postmortems.”

“Ah,” John says for lack of anything to say to that. “Sherlock! Molly’s here.”

Sherlock turns around from where he is sitting on his knees, and Molly crooks her index finger at him in their secret little wave they’ve adopted. Sherlock smiles, and gets to his feet. He walks up to her, and gives her a brief hug around the legs.

“Merry Christmas,” he says shyly. Molly crouches down, and pulls two presents wrapped in blue and pink snowflake paper out of the carrier bag she was holding.

“Do you want to help me put these under the tree?” she asks him. Sherlock’s eyes grow wide, and he nods his head reverently, which makes her laugh her bubbly laugh again. “You carry this one,” she hands him the smaller of the two, “and I’ve got this one. Sound good?”

“Yes,” he says, and clutches the present — some sort of book, most likely — to his chest. With his other hand, he takes hold of Molly’s wrist, and leads her to the tree. He immediately starts talking her ear off about the arctic tundra and something about musk-oxen and their shaggy coats.

John figures Molly will be occupied for some time yet, and he decides to go ahead and decorate. He diligently goes about the room and places a Christmas cracker on each one of the seats he arranged in a semicircle for the occasion.

A muffled bang, followed by tittering laughter from the kitchen, has John jumping nearly out of his skin a moment later. He pops his head in to investigate, only to be shooed out most vociferously by the Kitchen Squad, but not before he snags a small bacon-wrapped sausage for his trouble. He chuckles to himself, spotting how Mrs. Turner tries to hide the champagne bottle they just opened before he ducks out.

There are a set of footsteps on the stairs, and John heads out of the sitting room to see who it is. He grins when he peers over the banister and spies the Stamfords arguing as they climb up the seventeen steps.

“I don’t know why you had to take it out of the package, Michael,” Michelle says in exasperation. She rolls her eyes, but John doesn’t miss her soft smile.

“I had to test it, didn’t I?” Mike says, following his wife, a cocky grin on his face. John can see him carrying a poorly wrapped and very spherical present, and knowing Mike, it is probably a football. “Happy Christmas, John!” he says.

“Happy Christmas you two,” he says, giving Michelle a kiss on the cheek. 

“Oh, Happy Christmas,” Michelle beams. “Is Sarah coming?”

“No, I’m afraid she has to work.”

“Aw that’s a shame,” Michelle says pointedly. John shakes his head, knowing she knows better, and laughing when she merely shrugs.

“Starting him early, aren’t you?” John grins, nodding at the gift under Mike’s arm.

“Never to young to be an Arsenal fan,” he banters jovially.

“Too right! Feel free to head on inside, warm up by the fire. I’ll take your coats and put them in the cupboard with the rest,” he says, gathering their things and hanging them in the small closet along with his other guests'. He glances down at his watch, wondering where his sister is. It’s true she’s never been the most punctual of people, but John can’t help feel a pit of worry in his stomach given the fact she has yet to respond to any of his text messages.

Just as he’s about to join the rest of his party, the buzzer goes off, stunning him in place. Apparently, today was a day full of miracles, because when he finally manages to answer the door through his shock, there she is: his sister, sober, a little shaky, but better than he’s seen her in a long while.

“Harriet,” he says, unable to do much but stare at her for a second. “You came.”

“Of course I did,” she says, eyes sliding away from his. “I said I would.”

“Yes, of course. I know, come in, please,” John says rambling. He shuts the door behind her and notices the guitar case she’s carrying for the first time. “Hey, you brought your Gibson?”

“Figured I would. Been getting back into playing,” she says, running a hand through her flyaway hair. “It’s part of my meetings I’ve been going to; finding a hobby and all that.”

“Yeah?” John says. Something warm like hope blooms in his chest, and he tries to come off sounding interested but not patronising. “You found a program that isn’t full of imbeciles and shite mantras?”

She tosses him a crooked grin. “Oh no, there’s plenty of that…”

“But?” John ventures.

“Clara recommended it,” she says casually. Too casually, if the slight blush on her cheeks is anything to go by. He nudges her playfully, grinning from ear to ear until she pushes him away. “Yes! We’ve been talking, all right? I mean…most of it is stuff I’ve passed along to her about Sherlock’s custody case, but there’s still a connection there that I think we both aren’t ready to let go of. And…I dunno.”

She shrugs and finally meets his eyes. For the first time in a long time, John feels as if he can actually see his little sister starting back at him, the mantle of guilt and pain finally falling off of her shoulders and rendering her lighter like she was when they were young.

“I’m… _really_ happy for you, Harry,” he says, and her lip trembles a little when she nods. He pulls her into a tight hug then, and she grips back fiercely, shaking against him.

They break apart soon after, both not much for overt emotional displays, and Harry makes an off-colour remark like usual, and they are back to teasing each other like brother and sister. And if John wipes a tear off of Harry’s cheek, well. They don’t have to say anything about it.

“Shall we?” John says, tilting his head towards the stairs.

They enter the cheery sitting room to the sight of the landladies handing out an apéritif in clear crystal tumblers, and Mike fiddling with the telly until he lands on some sort of Charles Dickens Christmas special. Sherlock and Molly are still sitting by the tree, Molly softly singing _‘White Christmas’_ while she pantomimes a little dance with Sherlock’s hands in hers. Sherlock can’t help but giggle; a sound that never fails to make John feel heady and buoyant.

“Here you are, dears,” Mrs. Hudson says, coming around with the tray.

Harry looks down at the tumblers filled with amber liquid, and swallows thickly. “No thanks,” she says with a weak smile, and John is so proud of her he could burst.

“None for me either, Mrs. H,” he says nonchalantly, although he doesn’t miss the grateful look his sister gives him.

“Sure thing,” Mrs. Hudson says. “And it’s so good of you to come, Harriet. Family is so important, especially during the holidays. It’s all we have in the end.”

Harry nods, blushing a bit under Mrs. Hudson’s benevolent gaze.

“Everyone ready for dinner?” Mrs. Turner sings, and she is answered by a round of hearty and eager _‘yes’_ -es.

It’s funny. John is technically the host; however, he has practically been railroaded by this batty pair of women in his own house.

And he absolutely doesn’t mind in the slightest.

***

After the delicious feast has been eaten, after the Christmas crackers have been opened, and after the Queen has addressed her humble nation, John finally reckons that it’s time for the main event of the evening. 

“Do you want to open up some gifts?” John murmurs to Sherlock where he is sitting on John’s lap. Sherlock looks up at him, the earlier fog of too much food clearing from his sleepy gaze. He glances at the presents under the tree, the pile having grown to a decent size with the new additions, and nods hesitantly. John kisses him on the forehead, and stands up. “Gather ‘round, everyone!”

“Oh! Is the little one opening some prezzies?” Mrs. Turner says. “Have him open mine first!”

John goes to gather the presents with the help of Molly, and Mike turns the telly off.

“You can’t play Father Christmas without the hat, dear,” Mrs. Hudson says, giggling like a lark as she pulls the iconic red velvet cap over his head. John patiently lets her, but he darts a look a Sherlock and rolls his eyes. Sherlock bites his lip, trying not to smile. Perhaps that should be enough wine for Mrs. H, he thinks.

After the hat is in place, John places the parcels on the floor in a circle around Sherlock.

His eyes are saucer-wide, and he trembles a little as Molly continues to arrange them, the various multicoloured wrapping paper seeming to blindside him. Another shudder runs through his frame, and John pauses for a moment, casting a critical eye over him. Something is off.

“Go on, Ducky!” Mrs. Turner urges. “Mine are the ones with the holly.”

Sherlock looks down at the presents in question, a stricken expression coming to his face. His eyes dart up and latch onto John, sudden tears threatening at the brim. John immediately crouches down, and Sherlock grabs onto him so he could bury his face in the front of John’s jumper.

“Ooh what’s wrong, sweetheart?” Michelle coos from her spot on the coffee table where she was planning on being the festivities’ unofficial photographer.

“Sherlock?” John says, voice low. He cringes a little, and John rubs a hand over his back. He glances at Mrs. Hudson, and she nods her understanding.

“The little love’s a bit overwhelmed, the poor dear.”

“Sherlock,” John coaxes again. “What’s wrong, Bones?”

Sherlock peeks up at John, eyes watery. “There’s a _lot_ of them, John,” he whispers, gaze flicking to the presents. John is reminded of how Sherlock reacted to the gift Mycroft gave him, and it starts to make sense.

“I know. They’re all for you,” John says, trying to cheer him up. 

This seems to do the opposite, however, and in a tremulous voice laced with confusion Sherlock asks, “But, _why?”_

John tugs his chin. “Because we all _love_ you, Sherlock.”

His face crumples again, and John gathers him into his embrace, chuckling sadly. He manoeuvres them so he is sitting on the floor cross-legged, Sherlock in his lap.

“Michelle, honey, why don’t you put the camera away?” Mike says touching her shoulder, and she nods her agreement, tucking it out of sight.

“Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart,” Michelle says.

Sherlock doesn’t make a move to reach for anything, still bombarded by the concept that everyone is here mainly for him. John doesn’t blame him. He would bet his life that this is Sherlock’s first proper Christmas.

Murmuring encouragements in his ear, John leans forward and picks the smallest of the lot, a present not much bigger than his hand. It’s from his sister, and she smiles tightly at him from her spot on the sofa.

“Do you want to help me?” John asks, to which Sherlock shakes his head. “All right,” he placates, and tears open the package for him.

It’s a white box with a snow flake on the top, and when John lifts the cardboard lid, he sees a sleek black rectangle nestled inside among the tissue paper.

“It’s a magnifying glass,” Harry explains in response to John’s puzzled expression. “Go on. Pull it apart.”

John hands the object to Sherlock, and sufficiently curious, he pulls each end until they slide apart with a – _shick!_ – revealing the little convex glass within. He gasps softly, holding it up to his face, and then holding it over John’s knuckles to get a good look at the tiny nicks and freckles of his skin.

“ _Thank_ you,” he says ardently, his voice breathless with awe.

“You’re welcome,” Harry says, tucking a blonde strand of hair behind her ear. Sherlock gets up from John’s lap, and totters over to her, smiling in that little way of his that makes his blue eyes look all the more bright. They stare at each other for a beat, and then Sherlock stretches up on tiptoes to wrap his arms around her neck in a tight hug.

She stiffens in shock at first, but then closes her eyes, her arms holding him close. She plants a kiss in his hair, and sniffs discreetly before letting him go.

John has to look away for a moment as he clears the sudden lump from his throat. He is composed by the time Sherlock plops back in his lap, however, and pulls another present towards him. “How about another?”

Sherlock nods, more confident now, and carefully opens the gifts from Mrs. Turner: a nice set of trousers and a shirt and tie to match, a package of colourful socks, and a pair of felt reindeer antlers attached to a red headband.

“Put them on!” she exclaims.

Sherlock silently gives John a look that says _‘Do I have to?’_ to which John responds with a stern nod. He sighs, reluctantly slipping them on, and Mrs. Turner claps her hands, delighted.

The rest of the presents are opened in this fashion, with careful fingers so as not to spoil the paper, and with each one Sherlock’s uncertainty fades and his enthusiasm grows.

He opens a nice wool pea coat from Mrs. Hudson, the likes of which is a bit too long and hangs right at his knees; a football from Mike and Michelle (surprise); a book about bees from Molly; the Tricorn pirate hat John got him (which replaces the antlers in due fashion) along with all of his developed pictures, and six freezer bags each full with a different colour of M&M and then the stethoscope Sarah wanted to pass along in lieu of her being there.

Of all of these, though, one gift is a show stopper: the microscope John and Molly picked out for him. He let her take the credit for it, saying she did all the work in acquiring it in the first place, him only contributing to the idea, really. They both agreed to hold it back until the very end, and by the time Sherlock opens it, the look on his face has them both grinning at each other like proper co-conspirators.

“It’s a mico-scope!” Sherlock exclaims.

“A microscope?!” John says, feigning ignorance.

"Yeah!"

"Why don't you go ask Molly to show you how it works?" John suggests, and agreeing, Sherlock hops off his lap and holds the box out to her.

Joints creaking, he rises from the floor, his back protesting in indignation. Michelle gives him a hand, teasing him.

"Come on, old man. I'll help you with the dishes."

He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. He knows this is Michelle speak for _'I want to talk to you. Alone.'_ He follows her anyway, picking up a few dirty plates on his way to the kitchen.

They settle into the routine they had when they were roommates back in their Uni days, sharing a flat with no dishwasher and a hot water heater that had a pathetic life span that could rival a housefly. She stands to his right, drying the cups and flatware with efficiency, pausing only to help tug one of John’s sleeves back up past his elbow where it had fallen.

“Thanks,” he says, scrubbing at a particularly tough spot of gravy.

“So…” she starts, and John knows it’s coming; that this is what she has been waiting for. Penny in the air —“I’m surprised Sarah couldn’t be here.”

— and there it goes.

“Er. Well. She has a practice to run. She sends her regards, though.”

“Ah,” she says, wiping down a plate. He looks at her askance, and sure enough she doesn’t just leave it there. “So you two aren’t…you know?”

“No. God, no. I mean, maybe, once upon a time ago. But not now.”

“You seemed to hit it off, if I remember. What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”

John sighs. If he’s honest, he _does_ mind her asking, but he supposes an explanation is somewhat warranted give she was the one who introduced them all those months ago. Sarah and he tried dating, and even settled into a proper relationship until the Subject, capital ‘S’ implied, finally came up.

“We both wanted different things,” he says, hoping to deter her. It doesn’t, of course.

“Like what?”

“Michelle.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just…we go so long without touching base, you know? Last I heard you were with Sarah, about to propose and everything, and then nothing aside from hearsay that you two called it off. Then, months go by without a whisper until I am called into my husband’s office to take a look at a peculiar little boy with a fractured arm. Can you blame me?”

John glares down at the dishwater, attacking the grease in one of the pots with concentrated diligence while he thinks about how to answer her. He swallows, and without looking at her, he says, “She wanted children, and I didn’t.” Her silence is incriminating enough, and his voice comes out flat, self-deprecating. “Kind of ironic, now, wouldn’t you say?”

She hums in thought. “And she’s not…you know, bitter?”

“I don’t know. You’d have to ask her,” John says curtly.

“You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

He nods, letting the comment go. “I wouldn’t blame her if she was,” he admits, softly. “The truth is, there was a lot more wrong with our relationship than just that. It just seemed to be the tipping point — the moment we both realised we weren’t right for each other. It ended amicably, and she offered me a job once it became clear my rehabilitation wasn’t working and I could no longer act as a surgeon. It’s better for us, I think. Being friends.”

“So you wouldn’t ever think of getting back together with her?” Michelle asks.

“To be honest, I have no room to think about any sort of relationship right now,” John sighs.

Michelle huffs a little laugh. “I don’t mean to pry —”

“Yes you do,” he teases.

“No! I just…I’m really proud of you. You seem to have your priorities in check.” This startles him, and he dries his hands so he can turn and look at her. “I mean it. You are amazing with Sherlock, and I don’t think you believe it most of the time.”

“Yeah…” he says lamely.

“You don’t trust me?”

“It’s not that, it’s…god, I try really hard, and sometimes at the end of the day all I can think about is what I should be doing, or what I’ve overlooked, and most importantly, if I am making sure that he knows beyond a doubt how much he is cared for.”

“He knows. Anybody with eyes can see it.” She cups his cheek, irises brightening despite the unconvinced look he can’t help but give her. “I have something for you; wait here,” she says, unfazed.

John finishes putting the dry dishes away, and leans back on the work top while he waits. He smiles when he can hear Harry start up with her guitar, Mrs. Turner singing boisterously along to _‘Good King Wenceslas.’_

Michelle comes back into the kitchen, a small package tucked furtively under her arm.

“I said no presents for the adults,” John chides when she hands it to him. He should have known she would break the rules anyway. He shakes his head at her pleased expression, and slips a finger under one corner.

After a few strategic tugs, the wrapping paper falls away revealing the back of a photo frame. He darts a puzzled look a Michelle before turning it over.

In the frame is a picture of him and Sherlock taken that first day in Mike’s office. In it, John had just finished changing Sherlock into some clean clothes, the red dinosaur shirt he is inordinately fond of to be precise. Rarely a week goes by where he isn’t having to run it through the wash once or twice.

“How did you…?” he starts, his voice going rough. He remembers that Michelle was taking pictures that day for her records.

“This is one I kept out of the files,” Michelle says, and John looks down at it again, drinking in the sight of them both.

John himself is smiling down at Sherlock, his hand stilled in the process of tucking one of Sherlock’s unruly curls back into place after the shirt made a mess of his hair. It suddenly strikes him how happy he is in the picture despite the uncertainty he remembers feeling, but in hindsight, he isn’t surprised. No, what really enthralls him about this photo isn’t him, but _Sherlock._

In it, he gazes avidly back at John, his brow furrowing — but for once in neither pain nor fear. Instead, those blue orbs are full of the tell-tale signs of hope, and his lips timidly reflect John’s, curving upwards in a sweet smile. It is an expression of absolute trust; one that John has seen every day since. Sherlock trusts him wholly, and when John looks at the image of himself one last time, there is no one else he trusts with Sherlock, either.

He manages to tear himself away from the picture, unashamed that his eyes are probably shining. Michelle beams at him, pulling him into a fierce hug.

“Now do you see?” she asks, and he nods against her.

“I do. Thank you, Mich.”

“Happy Christmas, John.”

When they break apart, they both head back into the sitting room, automatically joining the chorus of _‘Deck the Halls’_ that’s being strummed out by his sister’s nimble fingers. John places the photo on the mantle, surreptitiously wiping the last vestiges of moisture from the corner of his eye before facing the room.

Sherlock runs to him, cheeks rosy from laughing and singing, and John swoops him up into his arms, smothering him with kisses until he can’t keep up with the _fa-la-las_ due to his giggles.

John takes in the sight of his hodge-podge of a family around the room, wearing their paper crowns, and singing loud and slightly off-key, his heart positively full to bursting. He reflects that for once in his life, he has absolutely everything he could have ever wished for —

Sherlock kisses his cheek.

— and so much more.

 

_End of Part One_


	15. Entr'acte

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello you wonderful people and happy 2015! I wanted to wait til after Christmas for this chapter, because it's definitely a lot darker. Things are revving up, friends. I am looking forward to this half of this little story. You all have been so supportive, and if I haven't got around to telling you how much your comments and kudos mean to me, I am sorry, and just know you all are the best.
> 
> xxHoney

He looks at the wall of monitors as if they are squares on a chess board. Which is an apt description. Chess. A game solely based on strategy; the trick being to anticipate all possible outcomes as well as every move your opponent can make all while staying behind the front lines. It is a game of aggression and manipulation, as well as subtlety and finesse, and the person he has been playing with for quiet sometime has been quite an intriguing challenge indeed.

But now the game has been going long enough, and he is tired — so fucking tired of his pawns being picked off one by one, and of this never ending dance between him and what is clearly his intellectual equal. _It’s like trying to see the back of your own reflection in a god damn mirror,_ he realises. Impossible.

Jim Moriarty bows his head and pinches the bridge of his nose when a bank of monitors — seven or so keeping surveillance on the South Bank warehouses — flicker and go black.

He blows out a lengthy sigh, and the tension in the room increases.

“Where is that?” he says, voice all casual steel. He revels in that calm-before-the-storm kind of thing, and smirks inwardly when the man on the switchboard to his left trembles.

“Th-the South —”

 _“Ye-es._ I know _where_ it is, you imbecile, I meant where is the proxy server.”

“Greater Cork.”

“Who do we have maintaining it?”

“The Creedy brothers,” the woman across the room says, typing furiously on her computer.

“Pity,” Jim says.

“Sir, don’t you want us to distort the trace?” she says, head darting up in confusion.

“No. No, no, no,” Jim thinks, licking the tips of his fingers and wetting his lips. “I warned the brothers what would happen if they crossed me. They thought I wouldn’t notice the little side enterprise of theirs. So I say, let the ‘British Government’ take care of them. Fix it so that arrogant toff can’t follow it back to us. Burn the trail if you have to.”

“But, that will cause us to abandon over half of our network!” the man says, voice high and thin with distress.

Jim trains reptilian eyes onto the sniveling idiot trying to regain the lost feeds. He slams his hand down to get his attention. The pissant flinches, eyes snapping to him, face paling.

“Do you think I would make this decision lightly? Without knowing the ramifications? _Do you think I’m stupid?”_ he hisses, slinking down to be eye level. “I _wrote_ the program. I know what it does.”

It was true that once initiating the burn virus, the server cache would be destroyed, taking out at least a third of their systems. It was a clever worm he invented that caused massive server failure, a program the like of which has hardly ever been seen before. It was this brilliance with computers that rocketed him to the top of the criminal masses early on, and set him on the path of his illustrious ‘entrepreneurial’ career.

“Are you sure, sir?” the woman says, the glow of her computer screen casting her features into odd, worried angles.

A muscle jumps in his jaw, and he shoves her out of the way, angrily stabbing the keys and setting the virus loose. Within a few minutes, the deed is done. Right on cue, his mobile frantically blares, the caller ID reading ‘Moran.’ 

Severin is panicking, no doubt, having just been informed of a massive server shutdown. More of the monitors on the wall flicker into blackness, and when Jim’s mobile rings again, he hurtles it towards the wall where it explodes into a shower of electronic components and bits of plastic.

“OUT! EVERYBODY OUT!” he bellows, and the two idiots that were supposed to be his lead techs scurry out through the hidden door panel followed by three others who wisely kept their heads down and their mouths shut. _“And somebody get me Wilkes!”_ he orders just as the door to closes silently, melding back into the wall.

Jim huffs a breath, composure back in place, and he brushes invisible lint off of his suit jacket. He will let the Iceman have this one, he supposes. After all, one cannot win at chess without making sacrifices. The drug operation he has going in Cork is nothing compared to his arms dealings with the Saudis, and after a bit of clever manoeuvring, he is able to regain the video feeds to his warehouses. To his knowledge, Holmes is still unaware of what’s going on right under his nose. As is typical of a deflection strategy. He smirks to himself, smug.

The door opens again, and a smarmy, unctuous man in an ill-fitted suit walks in with a nervous smile.

“You wanted to see me?”

“Ah, yes Sebastian. I am going to need to appropriate some of your bank’s servers for the foreseeable future.”

His smile falters. “H-How many?”

“At least a quarter of the hard drives you have in Shad Sanderson’s data centre.”

“Oh my. That’s quite a lot,” Wilkes say, tugging at his collar.

“I’ll be discreet, of course,” Jim sing-songs, sitting back in the leather chair with nonchalance. “You won’t even know I’m there.”

“Yes, but security is already on the blink. I think we have a leak somewhere in the system…” his voice drops off at the sudden sharp look thrown his way. 

“I fail to see how that is my problem.”

“It could be your problem,” Wilkes says, averting his eyes. He suddenly looks wan and clammy, as if shocked at his sudden audacity for speaking out.

“What was that?” Jim says leaning forward in his seat. Even though Wilkes is the one standing, he seems to shrink back at this.

“I – I’m only referring to —”

“I am aware of that hot-shot fledgling of a DI they have sniffing around your trade centres, Wilkes. And frankly, you’ve brought this on yourself. You were sloppy. Your best smuggler couldn’t even pull off a simple kidnapping. And now he’s got himself tangled up with Shan…” Jim _tsks_ through his teeth, inspecting his fingernails. “It’s no wonder poor Eddie went missing.”

Wilkes narrows his eyes, incredulous. “You…you’re saying…?”

“I’m telling you to forget about Van Coon. He’s history. And don’t worry about Inspector Dimmock. I have something in mind that will throw him off the scent and onto something that will tie up those nasty loose ends quite nicely for the both of us.”

“The Syndicate?” the dullard asks, a tentative hope lilting his tone.

“Yes. I’m afraid Shan’s little army of acrobats is starting to wear out its usefulness. I have made deals with other more…powerful members of the Tong who wish to see her usurped so one of their choosing can take her place.” Jim doesn’t miss the crestfallen expression. “Oh yes, my dear. Your dealings in the ‘antiquities department’ aren’t over.” Wilkes swallows audibly. “You might want to find new smugglers. Whoever they get to fill Shan’s place might not be so passive.”

Jim looks at him pointedly.

“Surely you can grant me some protection against the Tong? After all, the resources I’ve provided meet your needs, I hope?” Wilkes says, beads of sweat dappling his upper lip.

“Weeeell,” Jim says, reclining in the leather chair once more. He props his feet up on the desk, minding the switchboard. “It’ll cost ya.”

“Twenty percent more,” Wilkes says, jumping at the opportunity. 

“Mhm no. Not money, Wilkesey. I’ve got enough of that.”

“What then?”

There is a beat in which Wilkes shifts nervously. A grin crawls across Jim’s face. “How is your _son,_ Sebastian?”

“I, er…Billy?” Wilkes says. “I haven’t seen the little ingrate in years. Not since his mother died. The tart tried to settle me up in court, which was a big mistake on her part,” he scoffs.

“Ooh, yes. Heard you left her with nothing. Spoiled her reputation, too,” Jim says gleefully.

“That bitch had it coming,” Wilkes says with a truly malicious grin.

“What kind of _bastard,”_ Jim spits, mood whip lashing in an instant, “would strip a single mother of her professional title, and then disinherit his eight-year-old son?”

Wilkes snaps his trap shut, and Jim continues to bore into him with a look as sharp as daggers just to see him squirm. He lets up, and glides to his feet, as collected and aloof as ever.

“Luckily, I don’t mind the company of the despicable,” he shrugs with a wry grin, and Wilkes relaxes unsure whether or not to smile along with the joke. “You need to lighten up, Wilkesey. God, I guess they were right about your banker-types.”

Wilkes laughs weakly. “What, ah…what do you want with Billy?”

“Ah yes. William. Little Billy-boy Wiggins. He goes by Wiggins, now. Did you know? Some sentimental rubbish about keeping his mother’s name as a sort of ‘stuff you’ to the old man. But you don’t mind, do you?” Jim says looping an arm around Wilkes’s shoulders. “He’s really nothing to you. Hasn’t been for over ten years.”

“What are you getting at?”

“I need him,” Jim says, dropping his arm. “Specifically, I need you to deliver him to me. Bribe him. He’s one of the ‘wayward youth’ of this city, so I imagine he’ll come sniffing about once you wave cash in his direction.”

“You want me to hand over my son? What use is he to you? I mean, my God, I haven’t even spoken to the lad in all this time.”

“I know you keep tabs on the boy. And it is of no concern to you what my plans are. Don’t try to tell me you actually worry for his well being,” Jim snorts.

“No but —”

“This is the price of your protection, Wilkes. If you won’t deliver me the boy you can face the Tong yourself next time one of your smugglers gets sticky fingers,” Jim says coldly.

“O-okay. I’ll handle it. Not to worry,” Wilkes says, face a pale sheet.

“Excellent!” Jim says, clapping his hands once. “Now. I am in need of a new phone. Yours will do nicely, I think.”

Wilkes clears his throat. “Of course,” he says, and reluctantly reaches into his breast pocket. “Will that be all?”

“Yes. Leave. Go do…bank…stuff,” Jim says waving him away like a bothersome fly.

Wilkes leaves through the hidden door panel, and Jim flicks a switch causing all the monitors to go black.

With the commandeered phone he types out a quick,

_Status? – JM_

In mere moments, the text alert from Moran comes in.

_blackout. the Creedys have been taken out. Ops in shoreditch and south bank are fine. Ops in amsterdam are fine. are you fixing my fckin grid, Jim? – SM_

_Don’t get your knickers in a bunch. Expect connections to reestablish in fifteen. – JM_

_and the Creedys? – SM_

_Not our problem anymore. – JM_

_i hear you loud and clear. about bloody time. – SM_

_What of Hope? – JM_

_doppelganger is still in play. no word. you sure he’s your man? – SM_

Jim stares pensively down at the screen. Hope is a wild card, that’s for certain. And there is no telling if the old man caught wind of what happened to his family after the factory in Islington was raided. Hope was decidedly…busy during that time, playing Bishop to Jim’s Queen. But the old man was nothing if not focussed; a downright acolyte to Jim’s cause. After all, it’s not every day one gets to play God, and Jim was impressed with Hope’s own version of chess.

_If you receive contact, tell him I want what he promised. The missile defence plans. – JM_

_ok. over and out. – SM_

“Ooh, darling. Why so tense?” a sultry voice asks from across the room. Jim’s eyes dart up, and a dark smile curls his lips. “Would you like me to whip it out of you?”

“Irene. Sweetheart. Please tell me you have something delightful to take my mind off of the shite day I’ve been having,” Jim says, voice flowing with lascivious meaning. 

His eyes travel up Irene’s long legs clad in sheer nude stockings, and up the suggestive side split in her asymmetrical black dress. She stands with her hip cocked and her arms folded over her chest accentuating her voluptuous cleavage, and his gaze lingers on the graceful slope of a single bared shoulder where her dark hair lays softly against pale skin. She looks like milk and honey, and his mouth waters.

“Aw, poor thing. Come here,” Irene says holding open her arms. He goes willingly, grabbing her roughly by the waist and pulling her flush against him. He devours her lips, their tongues twining, while his hands press at the small of her back so he can subtly grind his hips into hers.

Her fingers thread through the short hair at the back of his head, and before he has a chance to nip at her full bottom lip, she yanks his head back.

“Ah, ah. You’ll spoil your dinner if you have anymore sweets,” she says, her bright blue eyes glittering.

“What’s for dinner?” Jim says with a leer, hands still roaming like a randy sixth former. She twists her fingers even tighter in his hair making his eyes water. It is glorious.

With the long, red painted fingers of her free hand, she plucks a mobile phone out from where it was nestled between her breasts. She releases him and waves it in front of his face.

“I have a little something that will most definitely distract the Iceman from your little games,” she teases, unlocking the screen. When she shows him the truly…scandalous photos, he gasps in delight.

He flips the switch on the control panel absently as he takes the phone from her. The monitors on the wall begin to flicker back to life.

“Oh, dovey," he breathes, reverent. _"How_ on _earth_ did you manage this?”

“I know what people like,” Irene shrugs. “Well…more specifically, I know what _she_ likes.”

Jim throws his head back and laughs. “You’ve out done yourself on this one, my pet. You really have. Of all the political scandals you could have cooked up you go straight to the top!”

“Go big or go home,” she says with a shrewd smile.

He grabs her forcefully once more, planting a crushing kiss to her lips. “I think I’m in love with you.”

Irene slaps his face and he grabs her wrist, and they both stare intently at one another, tension charging the air around them like static electricity. 

“You better watch your mouth, James,” she says lowly, voice like velvet. She smirks, and he grins back.

“Come on. Time for dessert,” he says, and lets her go.

By now, the video surveillance is back online, the screens intermittently flicking between three to four frames each of different locations. Irene waits patiently while Jim calls his team back into the room, her hands resting on her hips as Jim barks orders at his crew. She stares at the screens, bored, until one in particular catches her eye.

There, in the top right corner of the bank of monitors, is an ordinary shot of a street somewhere in London. Not interesting or even significant, by all means. But Irene can’t help but hold her breath when she spies a figure walking along the pavement, a child with dark curls and inquisitive eyes skipping next to him. It is this child that arrests her attention, and she watches hungrily as he slips his small hand out of the man’s bigger one so he could point to something excitedly out of the frame.

He laughs when the man picks him up, a sound she desperately wants to hear, and it takes all of her will power not to rush up to the screen and touch the image with her fingertips. She watches with hawk-like sharpness until the pair eventually stop at a black door with brass numbers and head inside. To her credit, she doesn’t flinch when Jim says her name despite how absorbed she is.

“Irene? Ready?” he says, regarding her with black eyes sparkling with wicked intention.

She forces herself to breathe normally, and with practised ease, she settles her features into that unfazeable countenance that’s served her so well over the years.

“Of course,” she says, slipping her arm through his, and with one last lingering look, they leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't really know how computers and servers and proxies really work outside of my basic knowledge, so if it is inaccurate, insert creative license here.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello loves! Wow RL has been really crazy lately! I've been doing auditions for stuff, and rehearsals, and THEN I had family out, and well...this is just to say I HAVEN'T FORGOTTEN ABOUT ALL OF YOU WONDERFUL READERS. This is Sherlock's POV again. It's a little shorter than usual, only because I am trying to divvy up my chapters accordingly. Hope you like it! And it was pointed out to me that this fic had a birthday! Which is quite fitting...
> 
> xxHoney

“But, _why?”_ Sherlock says, grabbing more blue M &Ms for the ocean. One of his favourite things to do with the little candies is make pictures out of them, and today he is trying to make a pirate ship.

“Why does the Earth go ‘round the sun?” Miss Janine says. Sherlock looks up and nods shyly. She smiles at him, tucking piece of dark hair behind her ear. Her hair is pretty, and with the way the sun shines through the window behind her, it looks gold in some places. He loops a finger around one of his own curls, tugging a moment before bringing some of the brown M&Ms over to him on the plastic table.

“Well,” Miss Janine says, gathering a handful of yellow and orange, “I am not an astronomer, but to my understanding, the universe exploded a long time ago into billions of galaxies filled with billions of stars.” She pauses in her explanation to arrange the yellows into a circle. “And one of those stars was our sun. And along the way, as it’s travelling through space at a billion miles per hour, it picked us up for the ride.”

Sherlock looks down at the cheery sun streaming its yellow and orange rays down on his pirate ship, and frowns.

“That’s silly,” he says crinkling his nose. He doesn’t want to do the M&Ms anymore, and pushes all of them into a colourful pile off to the side.

“It’s true, I swear!” Miss Janine says laughing. It’s a big open laugh that makes him think of a heathery meadow he saw a picture of once, and it makes him want to giggle too, ex-pecially when she tries to tickle him under the chin.

“Stop it!” he laughs, dropping his head to protect himself from her fingers. 

“I shan’t until you’ve given me my allotted smiles for the day. You were short last week if I recall.”

“No-o!”

“T’were, boyo!” Miss Janine says, her rhythmic Irish accent more pronounced than ever causing Sherlock to freeze and his vision to tunnel. He almost forgot the way she talks, how different she sounds, and how much she sounds like —

“Come back to me, sweet boy,” Miss Janine murmurs, and Sherlock blinks away the cold fear winding around his spine like a slimy snake. He lets out a shaky breath, and she takes his clammy hands into hers. They are soft and warm. “There you are. Remember how you’re safe? Remember John’s just right outside that door?” Sherlock nods, fingers squeezing hers.

“M’sorry,” he mumbles.

“Ay, none of that now,” she chides him gently, giving him a playful shake. “Do you want to tell me what upset you?”

She asked the same question last week when the same thing happened, and the thought of talking about his Father makes his throat uncomfortably tight. He shakes his head. When she spoke to him the first time, he was instantly afraid of her until she crouched down to his level and smoothed the hair back from his face, giving him no choice but to really look at her.

Her Story is an honest one. She has sadness inside her heart like most people of course, but instead of it keeping her sad, she is almost joyful because of it. She likes working with kids, and because she doesn’t have any herself, she treats all of the boys and girls she helps like her own. She has a lot of pictures of them pinned to a cork board behind her desk, and Sherlock is reminded of his own collection of photos taped to his bedroom wall. 

“Sherlock,” Miss Janine says, hands lighting onto his shoulders. “I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”

Sherlock purses his lips, peering into her face. He takes a breath.

“You’re a doctor. One of the ones like my John goes to see.”

“That I am,” she says smiling, and combing her fingers through his hair.

“He says that you help people by listening. Listening to their fears,” he says, voice dropping into a hopeful whisper.

She gives him a knowing smile, and with one last squeeze of his hands, she gets up and goes to the bookshelf. There, sitting in the centre, is what appears to be a little treasure box painted brown with black leather straps on either side of the brass latch.

“Do you know what this is, Sherlock?” Miss Janine says, lowering her voice. Sherlock’s eyes grow wide and he shakes his head. “This is my chest of secrets. I keep them in here where no one can ever know about them except me and you.”

She hands him the box, and curious, he opens it. “But…there’s nothing in here.”

“Oh yes there is! It’s full of secrets. But only I can see them. Here,” she says cupping her hand and scooping out something only she can see. Sherlock remains sceptical, but leans forward when she beckons him. She brings her hand up to his ear and whispers, “I’m afraid of circus clowns.”

Sherlock giggles, and pulls back to look at her, her warm breath having tickled his ear. She laughs as well, and puts the Secret back in the box. 

“You don’t need to be afraid of circus clowns,” Sherlock says reassuringly. “They are just silly, and their faces are normal-people faces under all the paint.”

“Very true. But I am still scared of them,” Miss Janine says. “You won’t tell anybody?”

“No. I won’t,” Sherlock says seriously, placing his hand over his heart like he’s seen John do whenever he makes a promise. He wouldn’t break a promise like this because it’s a Secret, a special Secret that only she showed him, which means she trusts him and he would never betray that.

“Oh good,” Miss Janine says and closes the Secret treasure chest with a snap. Sherlock eyes the chest thoughtfully, and traces one of the leather straps with his finger tip.

“You keep all your secrets in here?”

“I do. And other peoples’, too,” she says.

“And none of them ever fall out?”

“Never. I am _very_ good at keeping secrets,” Miss Janine says, tapping his nose. He wiggles it, and blushes slightly.

 _Maybe_ …he could tell her a Secret she could keep as long as it never falls out and she keeps it forever. Then maybe his heart wouldn’t feel so heavy all the time because he could leave something behind instead of carrying it with him.

“Can I…?” he murmurs, not meeting her gaze.

“You can,” Miss Janine says and cups her hands in front of him. “Go ahead, sweet boy. I’ll catch it for you.”

“My Secret is…” he whispers, “I hurt people. Very badly.”

Miss Janine nods, and carefully entraps the Secret in her hands. She opens the little chest and pours it in before closing it tightly and latching the brass latch.

“There. I have it safe in here now,” she says. Sherlock frowns, rubbing a hand over his heart. “What’s wrong, Sherlock?”

“I don’t feel any different,” he says. His cheeks feel warm and his eyes prickle with disappointment. He refuses to cry, though. “I still feel heavy.”

Miss Janine makes a humming noise. “Some secrets are like that. Let me ask you: you didn’t want to hurt those people, did you?”

“No! I promise!” he jumps. Miss Janine cups his face and shushes him soothingly. 

“Shh, shh. I know you didn’t. But you need to trust me when I tell you that you are not the cause of hurting those people.”

“But I —!”

“No, sweet boy. Listen. Those men that made you do what you did were bad men. Just because they were bad doesn’t make you bad, too. You found a way out, and you are helping the police catch them so they can’t force anybody else to do bad things. And because you decided you didn’t want anyone else to get hurt, that makes you different from them in a million ways.”

Sherlock finally meets her eyes as she caresses a thumb across his cheek. “A million?”

“A billion,” she smiles, and he smiles a little too.

“Can I see John now?” he asks.

“Absolutely,” she says, and gets up to go get him. Sherlock looks at the Secret treasure chest one more time, and thinks that perhaps he does feel a little lighter after all.

“Hey, kiddo,” John says following Miss Janine back into the room. Sherlock smiles at him and lets John kiss him on the head. “Good talk?”

“Mmhm,” Sherlock says, and turns back to the pile of M&Ms and begins to sort them by colour so he could put them back in their plastic bags while the gown-ups talked.

“How are his ‘talking times’ working?” Miss Janine asks as they sit in a pair of armchairs facing each other.

“Good. We share with each other every night before bed like you suggested.”

“Oh wonderful,” Miss Janine says, and Sherlock hides a bashful smile when John ruffles his hair.

“Yep. It’s going great. We are making progress with things. Steady as she goes,” John says, pride in his voice.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Dr. Watson.”

“Please, call me John.”

“Of course,” Miss Janine says, crossing her legs and leaning forward. “As you probably know, children are extraordinarily resilient. In my opinion, Sherlock is especially so. I know you were against testing…”

“Yeah,” John says. “Not sure I want him to go through all that.”

“I understand, John. And actually I agree. But it couldn’t hurt to test his IQ. He is exceptionally smart.”

“He’s brilliant,” John says beaming again, and Sherlock blushes and comes over to lean against his leg, an arm curling behind his knee.

“Which is why my personal and professional opinion would be to forego Special Measures in the trial,” Miss Janine says.

John inhales sharply, and Sherlock looks up at him, puzzled.

“I’m not sure…”

“Hear me out, I know how it sounds.”

“It sounds a little counterintuitive coming from a children’s trauma specialist, yeah,” John says.

Miss Janine chuckles, nodding her head in agreement. “If Sherlock were any other little boy I wouldn’t even suggest it. But Sherlock has a certain intuitive awareness I’ve never seen in children in his percentile. Where most would be further intimidated by facing their abuser, Sherlock understands why he is testifying, and has a very strong grasp of the consequences.”

“So…what are you saying exactly?” John says, wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, and squeezing lightly.

“Simply that his advanced reasoning skills are what leads him to adapt and adjust much quicker than children his age. I believe he would benefit from seeing his abuser punished as a direct result of his willingness to speak out.”

John looks down into Sherlock’s face, and Sherlock lifts his arms wanting to be pulled into John’s lap. He doesn’t really know all of what they are talking about, but he does want to make John’s voice sound proud again. John laces his fingers over Sherlock’s tummy, and Sherlock snuggles back into John’s soft jumper feeling cosy like he’s tucked in to a John-shaped armchair. With a John-shaped seatbelt.

“You have to understand, I have extreme reservations about what you’re suggesting,” John says.

“I understand. Completely,” Miss Janine says. “And ultimately, it’s up to you in the end. But, I have to say I am concerned about the other end of the spectrum. Just because he is capable of understanding things at a higher capacity, doesn’t negate the fact that he is still a child, and children have a very linear way of thinking. Sherlock still feels an inordinate amount of shame because of what he was forced to do. I worry that if this linear thought process isn’t broken early on, it will only cement itself in his psyche and could possibly become a cornerstone for dysfunction later in life.”

John’s arms tighten around his waist, and confused, Sherlock looks up at him. “What do you mean by linear thinking?” John asks.

“It basically means that Sherlock reasons though a step-by-step progression. He knows right from wrong, and knows that the men who abused him did very bad things. Because he was at their mercy, he can’t, in his mind, separate the fact that he is any different from those bad men. I fear that this is one of those emotional wounds that will continue to fester as he gets older, and carrying this type of guilt or negative self-image can be very damaging during his formative years.”

John furrows his brow, and breathes out heavily.

“I know,” Miss Janine says leaning forward to squeeze his knee. “I just dumped a whole lot of babble on you, I apologise.”

“No, no,” John says huffing a laugh. “My — well, my ex-sister-in-law said you came highly recommended. And I couldn’t agree more. Sherlock seems…happier since he started seeing you.” He glances down thoughtfully, and Sherlock grins hugely with all of his teeth to help him with his point. It does the trick, and a laugh bubbles up from John as he ruffles Sherlock’s curls again. “Cheeky monkey.”

“Ooh he is a little ham, isn’t he?” Miss Janine says teasing him. She reaches out and tugs Sherlock by the ankle making him giggle.

“Yes, he has his moments,” John says fondly, before resuming his serious business-face. “About what you suggested…what would forgoing Special Measures look like for us?”

“Well, Sherlock will actually be escorted into the courtroom as a witness, instead of being asked questions privately by a judge.”

“And the…accused will be there?”

“Most likely. By him confronting his abuser, I believe that’s where healing and recovery can fully begin.”

John makes a humming noise in the back of his throat as he thinks for a moment. “I’ll have to talk more to Sherlock about it, but you’ve given me a lot to think about,” John says.

“Are we going now?” Sherlock says, bouncing eagerly in John’s lap.

“Ready to leave me so soon, sweet boy?” Miss Janine says with a smile so he knows she is still teasing.

“Mmhm. Today is my birthday and John says I can do anything on my birthday. That’s what birthday’s are for, did you know?”

“Oh yes, indeed. Birthdays are for getting absolutely anything you want. What are you going to do?” Miss Janine says, getting up from her chair. John gets up likewise, slinging Sherlock over his hip.

“We’re going to the aquari-mum and then after that, the ferret’s wheel!” Sherlock says, wriggling excitedly in John’s arms. John chuckles, and kisses his cheek.

“Ferret’s wheel?” Miss Janine asks, glancing at John with a confused face.

“Mmhm. Haven’t you seen it? It’s the big, _big_ one that goes way up high and lights up at night!”

“He means the Eye,” John says.

“Oh! I see, now. Are you excited?” Miss Janine asks, her pretty brown eyes sparkling like…like _diamonds._ It makes Sherlock blush, and he suddenly feels very shy.

“Yes,” he says, looking away and playing with the collar of John’s jumper.

“Well I hope you have lots of fun, Sherlock. How old are you?”

“Five!”

“Goodness! You know what that means don’t you?” Miss Janine gasps. Sherlock shakes his head. “That means you’ll be needing five birthday kisses!”

Sherlock shrieks in surprise as Miss Janine rains a flurry of kisses down on him. Two on each cheek, and a final one on his nose that makes him laugh. Still giggling and still shy, he turns away wrapping his arms around John’s neck.

“How lucky,” John says, laughing likewise. “I remember getting swats on my bum instead of kisses!” To illustrate, John smacks him lightly on the bottom.

“No-o!” Sherlock pleads, giggling even more.

“Yes!” John says nipping his cheek playfully with his lips folded over his teeth. “Now say goodbye to Miss Janine.”

“Bye,” he says facing her in John’s arms. Before he loses courage, he reaches out and hugs her quickly around the neck.

“Bye-bye, sweet boy,” Miss Janine says. “See you next week.”

* * *

The aquarium was amazing and Sherlock never wanted to leave. He had read about fish being bigger than him in books, but the pictures were still small and were nothing like the real things swimming behind the glass walls. There was a hammer-head shark that was _at least_ a hundred feet long, its body lashing through the water like a whip. There were sea turtles floating in lazy little pods, and schools of fish drifting through colourful coral reefs, and the most amazing thing of all, a tunnel made of glass where you could watch the various fish and sea creatures swim above and around you.

There was a tour with an open-water tank where Sherlock and John could touch some starfish and a horseshoe crab, and another one where they could pet a sting ray, and a guide who told them all about octopuses and jellyfishes, and whale-sharks. At the end, she gave him two starfish stickers that he put on each of his cheeks to make John laugh — clapping his hands when John followed suit with a dolphin sticker on his own cheek. 

On their way to go get some chocolate ice cream, they passed a little shop with a fuzzy purple jellyfish sitting in the window, and John bought it for him when Sherlock said she would make a good friend for Geoffrey. The jellyfish — Izzy, Sherlock decided to call her — came with a little book about sea life, and her tentacles were a very soft material filled with sand that Sherlock liked to squeeze between his fingers.

Yes, the aquarium was wondrous, but now the best was yet to come, and Sherlock can’t help but dance a little in place as they wait in the queue for their capsule to come around.

Sherlock has seen many pictures of the London Eye, and from the moment he realised that it was something you could actually _ride_ on for fun, he wanted to go. The little glass compartments fascinated him for so long, and knowing that he is about to finally get in one makes him tremble with excitement.

“Ready?” John asks, squeezing his hand. Sherlock nods eagerly, clutching Izzy tightly to his chest.

Then, the little gates keeping them back open, and a man in a green jacket ushers them in with a smile, and finally, _finally_ they are on.

Sherlock drags John to the very front before all the other people can get the best spots, and all but presses his face to the window.

It’s slow moving, but it isn’t too long before the people on the street below begin to look like little insects and he can see out over the water, and over the rooftops of buildings.

“John, look!” Sherlock gasps pointing to the gigantic clock tower he knows is called the Big Ben. He tries to stand up on tip-toes, the capsule not quite high enough yet.

“Yes, I see,” John says, picking him up and leaning them both against the metal rail in front of him.

As they steadily rise higher and higher, Sherlock continues to point out various things and ask questions before he notices that John is being more quiet than usual. He doesn’t look _sad_ exactly, but he’s more muted than he was before.

“John,” Sherlock says, hoping to sound like John whenever John was trying to comfort him. The dolphin sticker on John’s cheek is coming unstuck, and Sherlock presses it back down. “Are you okay, John? Don’t be sad, John.”

John chuckles softly, turning his deep blue gaze to Sherlock. He smiles, but it is still somewhat of a sad expression. Sherlock puts Izzy on his head, and cups John’s face between his hands smushing his cheeks together making him finally smile for real. John moves his puckered lips like a fish, transferring Izzy to his own head, and Sherlock giggles, hugging John tightly.

“Are you having fun?” John murmurs.

“Mmhm. I didn’t know this is what birthdays was.”

John sighs, and Sherlock thinks that he made him sad again, but he doesn’t know why. He takes Izzy from the top of his head and tucks her into his arm. Before he can think of a way to make him smile again, John brushes some curls out of his eyes and fixes him with a serious look.

“Remember when Miss Janine and I were talking earlier?” Sherlock nods slowly. “Do you understand what she was talking about?”

Sherlock thinks, putting a finger to his mouth and chewing lightly on it. “She said I should see the judge in the court room?” John nods.

“She said that I should let you be in the court room with all the people and the lawyers instead of having you talk to the judge alone,” he clarifies.

“Oh,” Sherlock says, frowning a little.

“I don’t want to do that if you don’t want to, but she seems to think it will help.”

“Like our Talkie Times?” he asks, and John nods again. When Miss Janine suggested the concept, Sherlock was anxious at first. She was worried that he needed someone other than his bumblebee to talk to whenever he had a nightmare, or a bad thought would come up. Naturally, it was John she suggested he tell his anxieties to. So every night while John was tucking Sherlock in for bed, they would talk about how they felt about their day. 

Often times it started silly like John saying, _‘Today I was happy because I ate the last piece of sausage before Sherlock did!’_ and Sherlock would say, _‘Today I was mad that John ate the last piece of sausage!’_ even though he didn’t mean it and wasn’t really mad. But then they would slowly start to talk about other things. John would say something like, _‘Today I felt sad when I read about the missing girl in the newspaper,’_ and then Sherlock would say, _‘Today I felt lonely when the other kids in the park didn’t want to play with me,’_ or _‘Today I felt bad when I thought about the boy with the shoes,’_ or _‘Today I am scared to go asleep because what if I don’t wake up here again, but back with Mister Hope?’_

And then John would talk to him and banish the fear or the loneliness by telling him that he loved him and that he would make sure that nothing would happen to him, and then he would kiss him on his head and maybe hum a song until Sherlock fell asleep. And then in the morning, the world didn’t feel so big and his heart didn’t feel so heavy.

“I like our Talkie Times…” Sherlock says slowly.

“I do too.”

“I think…we should listen to her,” Sherlock says, finally looking up. It makes him nervous, but he trusts Miss Janine. And she said John would be there.

John regards him with a fond expression, his eyes heavy with something Sherlock can’t name. He pulls Sherlock to him in a strong embrace, burying his face into Sherlock’s hair and taking a deep breath. Sherlock snuggles against him, patting his back.

“God, when did you get so brave, Bones?” John whispers, a slight tremor in his voice.

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say to that, so he pulls back and peels one of his starfishes off his cheek. He puts it on John’s, and kisses it to press it down. John smiles, his eyes shiny.

“Today I felt happy,” Sherlock says.

“Today I felt happy, too,” he says, and they both look out the window as they continue to rise above the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise that the timeline I am going with makes it so Sherlock's birthday isn't on the sixth, but more towards the end of January. Oh well. :D


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Happy Easter! Happy Spring if you don't celebrate! Happy all the things! Sorry this has taking me a while. This chapter is about the trial and it actually ended up being a lot longer than I anticipated. So, I have chosen to break it up, so if it sounds a little cut off at the end that's why. It's quite a doozy, friends, and I am dilligently working away along with my other stories and projects. Thank you all so much for your wonderful patience, your comments are truly amazing. 
> 
> xxHoney

Sherlock sits very still on the stool where John is cutting his hair, fascinated when he trims a bit of his fringe. John knows that look well, and pauses after snipping a wily curl.

“Now don’t you be getting any wise ideas, Bones. Only I am ever allowed to cut hair, got it?” Sherlock stares up at him with his innocent baby blues, but John isn’t buying it. _“Got it?”_

“Yes, John,” Sherlock grumbles, pursing his lips into a little pout.

“None of that now. After what you did to my jumper, not allowing you scissors is a rather tame punishment.”

“But you have lots of other jumpers, John.”

“Lots, huh.”

“Like at _least_ a hundred,” Sherlock says rolling his eyes. John can’t help but bark out a laugh. He really needed to stop letting Mrs. Hudson watch that catty Jeremy Kyle around Sherlock.

“Hardly.”

“I didn’t think you would miss it, honest! And I tried to pick one of the ugliest ones and not the nice softest ones,” Sherlock reasons. If this is any indication on how rearing a boy genius was going to go, then John is patently doomed.

He sighs, undoing the towel from around Sherlock’s shoulders, and gives it a good shake so the loose hairs fall to the floor. Sherlock, in only his cotton shorts, shivers a little due to the chill.

“All right soldier, go get the bath running. I’ll sweep this, and be in there in a minute.”

“Can I have bubbles?” he asks with those hopeful eyes again.

“Yes, you may,” John concedes even though they don’t have much time. “But it’s going to be a quick bath, so don’t get carried away with the toys.”

“Mmkay!” Sherlock chirps, and shimmies down off the stool where he takes off down the hall. John listens to make sure Sherlock manages the taps all right, before seeking out the broom and dustpan. He finishes sweeping up the black ringlets just as the water shuts off. A moment later, Sherlock calls out that he’s ready.

John grabs the bubble bath off the top of the fridge to prevent little hands from reaching, and makes his way into the loo.

Sherlock is humming to himself, playing with a few green army men and a sail boat when John walks in.

“Look, John! There’s a captain and a first mate and a second mate and a third mate, and this one here is the guy who cleans the cannons and sobs the decks.”

“Mmhm,” John says distractedly as he pours a moderate amount of liquid soap into the bath.

“John, you’re not looking.”

“Yes, I am!” John says chuckling a little. “Mister bossy pants.”

“I’m not bossy pants,” Sherlock pouts.

“Yes, you are,” John says, churning the water with one hand to make the water frothy.

“No, because I’m not even _wearing_ pants. I’m naked!”

This garners a full laugh out of John which makes Sherlock grin, the clever little monkey. When did his boy get so cheeky?

“Well, you can’t argue with that logic,” John says. He takes a cloth and runs it over Sherlock’s skin before wetting down his freshly cut hair with palmfuls of water. He grabs the bottle of shampoo in the shape of Superman, and uncaps the top. “Do you want to wash your hair, or do you want me to?”

“I can do it!” Sherlock pipes, taking the bottle from John and carefully squeezing some of the berry-scented shampoo into his cupped hand.

“All right, then. I’ll be back in ten minutes,” John says, leaving to go get ready himself.

His bedroom is just on the other side of the loo, meaning he can keep an ear out while he changes into suitable clothes for court. He smiles idly, listening as Sherlock begins to sing in his sweet, effervescent voice:

_“I am a Pirate King! Hurrah for the Pirate King! And it is, it is a glorious thing, to be a Pirate King!”_

John pauses, trying not to laugh as he sings it over and over, splashing happily in the water, until John is unconsciously humming it along with him. He doesn’t realise he is, in fact, humming along until he catches himself a moment later while rummaging in the back of his wardrobe. He groans, mentally cursing his landlady for letting Sherlock watch _Pirates of Penzance,_ as well as Gilbert and Sullivan for their damn catchy show tunes. It’s bound to be stuck in his head all day now.

He huffs as Sherlock sings about the Pirate King for the tenth time, and pulls on a navy-coloured oxford followed by the nice grey cardigan Harry gave him last birthday. It is merino wool, and very soft, and just about the most formal thing he owns. It would have to do.

“Okay, Pirate King, time to rinse off,” John says coming back into the loo. Sherlock pouts, but does as he’s told, and sluices the remaining bubbles off. John unplugs the tub, and Sherlock stands, pushing the wet curls out of his eyes. Before he even starts to shiver from the cold, John is there with a warm towel, scrubbing through his hair, and across his shoulders. He helps Sherlock step onto the bath mat where he can finish drying him off before he wraps the towel firmly around him. “Snug as a bug?”

Sherlock replies with a drowsy little nod, lulled by the hot water and dewy steam of the bathroom. John’s glad the bath relaxed him somewhat, and tries to put aside his own worry and nerves for his sake. Sherlock’s hand pops out from the towel to rub his eye, and John can’t help but kiss him on the forehead as he scoops him up. It was all going to be okay — _they_ were going to be okay.

“Do I really have to wear a tie?” Sherlock says, immediately eyeing the dapper shirt and trouser combo he got from Mrs. Turner at Christmas. It is currently laid out nice and neat on Sherlock’s bed, the matching blue tie sitting on top, but by Sherlock’s face one would almost think it was a prison sentence.

“Yes, but it’s only for a short while.”

“It’s stupid,” he argues.

“Hey, now. Bowties are cool,” John says, giving him a wink. Sherlock doesn’t buy it, and scowls even harder at the offending garment, making John chuckle. He doesn’t protest any further, however, and John helps him get ready.

It’s when John’s working a comb through Sherlock’s unruly hair that he notices his pensive silence. He stops what he’s doing, and looks at him in the floor length mirror beside Sherlock’s wardrobe. Sherlock stands there, his back pressing into John’s knees, playing with his tie.

“What is it, love?” he asks, and Sherlock glances up at John, before lowering sad eyes back to the floor.

“What if I do bad?” he says, hugging himself.

“Impossible.”

“No, John! What if — what if —?”

“Sherlock,” John says, picking his boy up so he could look him in the eye. “Remember what Mr. Angelo told you when you and he talked?”

“He said…to tell the truth?”

“That’s right. That’s all you have to do. If you don’t know the answer to a question it’s okay to say ‘I don’t know.’ You won’t get in trouble, ever, for not knowing,” John reassures. “And if you start to get scared or upset, I will be right where you can see me the whole time.”

“Okay,” Sherlock says curling an arm around John’s neck to keep him close. “Will you hold Geoffrey for me?”

“Absolutely. He and I will be in an aisle seat, right in front of the witness box so you can keep an eye on us. And then after, we can go get an ice cream.”

“Ice cream?” Sherlock says, smiling a little.

“With sprinkles,” John says, dotting his nose with his finger.

“John, dear!” Mrs. Hudson calls from downstairs. “The taxi you ordered is outside!”

“Thank you, Mrs. H!” John calls back. He plucks the little bumble bee off Sherlock’s pillow, and hands it to Sherlock. “Ready, Bones?”

Sherlock, eyes wide, nods and squeezes his toy close to his chest. His brave boy.

John smiles encouragingly, and plants another kiss on his forehead. They head downstairs.

* * *

The cab ride to the Old Bailey is a quiet one with Sherlock in his customary spot on John’s lap, calmly watching London pass by through the window. John is glad he’s calm because, secretly, he’s freaking out. Just a little.

His mind plays over the past week, asking himself yet again if he was making the right decision by letting Sherlock testify in front of all those people. In front of his abuser. He wanted to make sure Sherlock understood this, and after sitting him down and explaining that he would eventually have to be in the same room as Mr. Hope, Sherlock, his little trooper, nodded and said he still wanted to do it. Part of him wished Sherlock had backed down and went with the livestream testimony like they’d planned, but John realised he couldn’t keep him wrapped in cotton wool like he wanted to forever. And as much as he’s had trust issues with therapists in the past, he actually trusts Dr. Hawkins in knowing what’s best in Sherlock’s case.

There is a gaggle of press gathered at the main entrance, and John directs the cabbie around to the side. It’s well known that the prosecution's star witness — near _only_ witness — is a child, and it wouldn’t take a genius if Sherlock and he just waltzed in through the front. Mr. Angelo assured him that the side entrance would be considerably less populated, and for that, John is grateful as they were able to making it into the building without fuss.

Mr. Marcus Angelo is waiting for them in the Grand Hall, and he ushers them to a nearly empty conference room with a table and a handful of red chairs.

“Good to see you Dr. Watson,” Angelo says, with his booming voice and shakes John’s hand. “And little Sherlock, of course!” he says placing a large hand on Sherlock’s head. Sherlock gives him a small smile when he ruffles his curls a little.

A woman in a business suit and perfectly coiffed hair, comes over with a white paper box. Angelo takes it from her. “The vultures weren’t a hassle, were they?” he asks, opening said box.

“No, we managed to avoid them, ta.”

“Good, good. Zeppole?” he offers. John looks into the box — a pastry box, he realises — at the delicate looking creampuffs all in a row, and his stomach churns. “No thanks, for me.”

“Ah, well, how about you, Sherlock? I got a cousin who owns a little bistro, and he assured me these are exactly what you need for a long day in court,” he winks. Sherlock nods, and reaches for one. Curious, he licks some of the yellow custard poking out from the top. His eyes widen in delight and he crams most of it into his mouth in one go.

“Sherlock!” John says. “Don’t make a mess, please.”

“That’s all right,” Angelo laughs tousling his curls again. “I have to leave now, but I will see you in there, okay Sherlock?”

“Okay,” he says licking a bit of custard off his thumb. He crawls up into one of the chairs.

“What do you say, Bones?”

“Thank you, Mr. Angelo,” Sherlock dutifully replies with a smile so sweet and innocent, it’s no wonder he gets a second pastry for his trouble before the barrister leaves. John’s not sure if it’s blatant manipulation or not, but he has a good feeling it is, and he can’t suppress the smirk on his lips. Oddly, it loosens the knot in John’s chest. Sherlock is exactly what Dr. Hawkins said: intelligent beyond comprehension, and incredibly resilient. The former, he already knew, but the latter he is learning to trust and understand. Because, here he is, the little boy who only a few months ago, could barely leave the flat without falling apart, sitting here calm as anything, eating his second cream puff as if the entire prosecution doesn’t rest on his testimony. He rubs his forehead with his fingers.

“Dr. Watson,” the smartly dressed woman says, touching his elbow. He startles, then grimaces in embarrassment. She smiles, and hands him a glass of water which he takes with a weak grin.

“Thank you…?”

“Eleanor Jones: Court Clerk. I’ll be staying with Sherlock until he they call him; you have nothing to worry about.”

“Thank you, Ms. Jones,” John says. He can tell she’s trying to prod him into leaving, and he recalls Angelo saying something about not spending too much time with Sherlock before the trial starts. The last thing he wants is to be accused of coaching Sherlock before he testifies. He smiles his understanding, and Ms. Jones nods, clearing some of the left over pastries out of the way. He crouches down next to Sherlock.

“I’ve got to go, now Bones. But I’ll be waiting for you when you get in there just like we talked about, okay?”

“Okay,” Sherlock says. John goes to stand up, but Sherlock grabs his wrist. “Wait! You have to take Geoffrey!” he says, pushing the stuffed bee into his hands.

“If you want, you can hold on to him, Sherlock,” Ms. Jones says kindly.

“No,” Sherlock says looking back at John, his eyes wide and almost too big for his pale face. “He has to go with you because he’s scared, and he needs you to protect him, John,” he explains. His lower lip wobbles, but with every ounce of determination he can muster, he doesn’t cry. John’s chest swells with pride, and he cups Sherlock’s cheek.

“All right, sweetheart,” he whispers, and Sherlock launches himself at him. John catches him and holds tight, shushing him gently as Sherlock trembles against him. “You are so brave. _So_ brave. And I am so proud of you.” Sherlock gives a wet sniff, but when he pulls back he is smiling somewhat.

“Be good, Geoffrey,” he says to his bumblebee, and kisses the toy on the head.

John stands, and with one last squeeze to Sherlock’s shoulder, leaves and heads to Court Room Ten.

Luckily, it’s early, and the gallery is still mostly empty. John is able to get a seat close to the prosecution side although, he is unable to be front and centre to the witness box due to the amalgam of press already taking up the first two rows. He is still visible due to the classic stadium-canted seating, and it won’t take too much effort for Sherlock to pick him out as long as he looks up.

Mr. Angelo, looking a bit like _Rumpole of the Bailey_ with his white wig, glances in his direction and nods. John returns the gesture, and tries not to wring the stuffed toy in his lap in anticipation. It’s silly, but he actually feels a little better with something to do with his hands.

The gallery begins to fill, and the reporters buzz the closer the clock ticks to nine, and John is just about ready to get up to hunt for some tea or coffee, when the sound of his name causes him to turn.

“Mind if I sit with you?”

“Greg,” John says, shaking his hand in a firm grip. “Good to see you.” He motions for the DI to scoot in next to him. “I thought you didn’t have to testify until tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I’m not here in any official capacity. Just here to watch,” he confirms, taking a seat on the hard bench.

“Were you here yesterday, as well?”

“Yeah. The opening arguments for the defence are tough. They are claiming psychosis.”

“On what grounds?” John says, outraged. A few people give him looks, but he ignores them.

“On the grounds that he’s dying, apparently. He’s on some…vigilante killing spree. Something about delusions of righteousness, or some other shite,” Greg says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yesterday was all expert witnesses, psychologists and the like.”

“Sherlock’s testimony is what really matters, though, isn’t it?”

“Yes, his is the most important. It’s the only evidence we have that isn’t circumstantial.” He sighs, looking haggard. “How is Sherlock with all this?”

“He’s doing okay. Scared about all this, but he’s strong. He wants to do this,” John says, smoothing the wings down on the bumblebee.

“Yeah, he’s something else,” Greg says fondly. “In a way he reminds me of my Lucas.”

“Your son?” John ventures.

“Yeah. He, er, he was a good kid. Curious, like Sherlock. Scary smart, too.” He pauses, swallowing hard. “I used to keep a firearm in the house, you know. Being a DI, I’m not on a lot of people’s good sides. I don’t know how but, one day he got into my safe and —” he clears his throat. “Anyway. He was a good lad.”

“I’m sorry,” John murmurs.

“Ah, it’s okay,” he says gruffly. “It was accidental, gone twelve years now. But Luke was special, like your boy. Not a day goes by where I don’t catch a glimpse of him somewhere, somehow.”

Touched, John grips his shoulder. “I just want to say thank you, Greg. For doing everything you can in Sherlock’s favour.”

“It’s one thing to be a serial killer, but no one should get away with treating children that way,” he says. “This bastard is going to go down hard.”

Just then the doors open, and a pair of court officers usher in what must be the defendant going by the murmuring of the crowd. John cranes his neck so he can see, his brows furrowing. Somehow, Hope is not what John expected.

He’s a plain man, small and unassuming with mousey brown hair, and an unkempt-looking moustache. His suit is an ill-fitting tweed that looks starchy and uncomfortable, but goes well with his dour expression. There are deep crow’s feet around his eyes as if he is in dire need of reading glasses, and even though he is on trial as shoe scum, he holds his head high in a manner that makes John’s teeth grind.

The barristers and various other court staff just manage to make it to their seats when the usher calls, “All rise for the honourable Judge Graham presiding.”

John, standing at parade rest as the judge enters from his chambers, is tense with the buzz of anticipation just like everyone else.

“Crown Court is now in session, you may be seated,” Judge Graham says with a weary wave of his hand. “The prosecution may resume.”

Mr. Angelo stands. “If it pleases the Court, the prosecution calls Sherlock Holmes to the stand.”

The doors open with a muffled squeal, and the press murmurs excitedly as Ms. Jones leads Sherlock, looking so small and so scared, through the court room by the hand. John has to physically restrain himself from leaping to his feet by gripping the underside of the bench with both hands.

She helps him onto the stool positioned in the witness box, and whispers something in his ear. Immediately, his blue eyes flicker up to the gallery where John is. John lifts Geoffrey the bumblebee so he can spot him, and from here, John can see his relief. He waves back a little, and Ms. Jones takes her seat at one of the tables. Mr. Angelo smiles, and walks closer to the witness box.

“Hello, Sherlock.”

“Hi,” he says, smiling back at Mr. Angelo albeit nervously.

“How do you like the courthouse?” he asks.

“It’s big,” Sherlock says, eyes drifting up to the high ceiling. Mr. Angelo chuckles.

“That it is. Do you know why you are here?”

“To answer questions,” he says with a bit more confidence.

“Correct. Remember, this isn’t like a test at school. You don’t need to try to get all the answers right. If you don’t know, all you have to do is tell me or my colleague, Mr. Frame over there, all right?” Angelo says, indicating the other barrister across from them.

Sherlock looks up at the other barrister, frowning a bit as he looks around. John holds his breath waiting for the fear to creep into his expression the moment his lays eyes on Hope, but it never comes. John lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Okay,” Sherlock says, looking back to Mr. Angelo.

“Good lad. And what do you do if you know an answer, then?”

“Tell the truth,” Sherlock replies.

“Very good! So if I asked you what colour the sky was what would you tell me?”

“Blue!” Sherlock says, face lighting up. “But actually it’s not just blue, it is made up of all the colours, it’s just the blue we see the most, according to what John says.”

Angelo huffs a laugh, and the rest of the court chuckles along with him.

“What a smart boy you are! And if I asked you what you think of my wig what is your answer?”

“It’s ugly!”

More laughter in the courtroom, and John finds the nervous tangle in his stomach loosening somewhat.

“Counsel, does this assessment relate that the witness is capable and fit to testify?” Angelo asks addressing the defence. Mr. Frame stands.

“The defence takes no issue with the witness.”

“Proceed,” Judge Graham says.

Mr. Angelo nods, and walks up to the witness box, resting his hand on the polished wood in a manner meant to be non-threatening. “Sherlock, how old are you?”

“Five. I just had a birthday.”

“That’s fantastic!”

“I never had one before,” Sherlock agrees. “It was fun.”

“You never had one before? Do you mean you’ve never celebrated your birthday?”

“Yeah. I didn’t know what they were.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I used to live with Mr. Hope, and he didn’t like me very much,” Sherlock says, eyes lowering to the floor.

“You lived with him a long time?”

“Mmhm. A long time until John came,” he says making eye contact with John in the gallery. John smiles back, his heart aching.

“Why didn’t Mr. Hope like you?”

Sherlock looks back to Angelo. “Said he thought I was stupid. Said he only kept me around because I was only good for one thing.”

“What was that?”

“Helping him,” Sherlock says, voice beginning to tremble.

Mr. Angelo leans in a little more, voice softening. “Helping him with what, Sherlock?”

Sherlock sucks in a shuddery breath, his brows knitting. “I – I can read the stories for him. The people stories. When I look at them, I can see a lot of things. Things like what they do with their hands, and I can hear lies under their voices, and I can see the secrets in their eyes.”

“What does that mean, Sherlock?”

Sherlock meets Angelo’s concerned stare with a guilty one of his own. He turns his head towards the jury box, and points. “Seven of them have rings on their fingers, like husbands and wifes do. They all had tea and biscuits because some have crumbs and bits on their clothes. I know because Mrs. Hudson always gives me biscuits and they are messy. The lady on the end writes really quick and funny, so she has a busy job probably like a secretary or a business lady,” the foreman of the jury pauses, her head snapping up in shock, “and the man next to her works in a library.” The person next to the foreman audibly gapes, and there are gasps heard through out the court. “I can tell because he licks his thumb a lot before turning his notebook pages.”

“That’s incredible, Sherlock,” Mr. Angelo says, giving him a warm smile. “Is that all you can see?”

“No,” he says uncomfortably. “I can see that two of them are together and like each other very much, probably the kissing kind, even though they have different rings on their fingers.”

In the back row of the jury, the two in the middle cough, and shift anxiously in their seats. The murmuring of the court grows a bit in volume, and the Judge has to call order.

“Can you always do this?” Mr. Angelo asks.

“Your Honour,” Mr. Frame interrupts, “these tricks are all well and good, but is there a point being made despite the proof that the witness is a wunderkind?”

“As impressive as this is, Mr. Angelo, I am inclined to agree with Mr. Frame. Do proceed in a timely manner.”

Angelo nods. “Mr. Hope would make you use this…gift of yours for his own devices?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says in a near whisper. Hectic spots of colour break out on his cheeks, and he trembles where he sits. John grips the stuffed toy in his hands.

“What did he have you do?”

“Bad things…” Sherlock says, panting a little, and his face begins to fade to grey. “Very bad things.”

“Like what?”

“I — I —”

“What did he make you do, Sherlock?”

“Please…” he says, at the end of a sob. John feels as if he’s been kicked in the chest at the sound. He glances over at Hope. 

Hope stares placidly at the proceedings as if none of this is neither her nor there. The deadness in his gaze is like fingernails scraping over John's nerves. Even when he was fighting some of the most violent enemy insurgents in Afghanistan, he had never felt a burning hatred for another human being like he does for Hope in that moment.

As if sensing he has a specific audience, the man in the dock looks up and meets John’s glare head on.

He grins a secret, dark grin -- disturbing and twisted and taunting. John shudders as ice slides down his spine...


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's part two of the trial! Tis quite explosive, dearies. I realise I have probably taken quite a bit of liberties for the sake of telling a dramatic story, so if there is anything incongruous, please over look it. Unless it is something I have glaringly misrepresented to the point where it detracts from the story. (Basically I watch a lot of Law and Order and I know real court isn't this dramatic lol.)
> 
> And hey! An update almost within the same week! Who says I don't spoil you? *winks*
> 
> Okay. I will stop being creepy and let you read. Thank you all for your comments!
> 
> xxHoney

“Sherlock?” Mr. Angelo asks. “What did Mr. Hope make you do?”

Sherlock blanches, the last bit of his restraint crumbling as he sucks in a breath, trying to muffle his sobs. John can see his eyes filling with tears from where he sits. Mr. Angelo asks him again, and he shudders, the moisture finally cresting and rolling down his cheeks. The urge to get up and snatch him out of the witness box is a strong one, and John has to physically stay himself. After a moment, Mr. Angelo addresses the Judge.

“Your Honour, may I request a brief recess?”

Judge Graham nods in understanding. “Court will resume in five minutes’ time. Ms. Jones, will you escort the witness?”

Ms. Jones swoops in; daubing Sherlock’s face with a kerchief, and leaning close to murmur a few things in his ear. Sherlock nods sorrowfully, allowing himself to be hoisted up over her hip and carried out of the court room. John wants to go to him, but he knows he can’t, and the thought of not being there to comfort him makes John feel vaguely ill. The look on his face must read that way because a moment later, Greg gives his shoulder a rallying squeeze. It is a long five minutes.

Finally, Ms. Jones is summoned back in, Sherlock trailing beside her like a lamb. She says something to Sherlock which John can’t make out, but it causes Sherlock to smile, and John decides he needs to take Ms. Jones to coffee or something, because she is apparently amazing. He lets out a breath.

“Court is back in session,” the Judge says once Sherlock settles back on his stool. “Still your witness, Mr. Angelo.”

Angelo nods, and rises from his seat. “Hello, Sherlock. Feeling better?”

“Mmhm. I mean -- yes.”

“There’s a lad,” he winks, and Sherlock grins at him shyly. “Now…” he says treading softly, “you said Mr. Hope made you do bad things?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says nodding, his voice so brave and so solemn. “All the time.”

“We don’t have to talk about all of them, I promise.”

“Really?” he says, eyes shining.

“Really. But I do need to ask you about some of them.” He goes over to the prosecutor’s table where his assistant hands him a dossier. “I’m going to show you a picture now, Sherlock. Is that okay?”

“Yes, that’s okay,” he says, twisting his hands in his lap.

Mr. Angelo approaches the witness box. “Do you know who this woman is?”

Sherlock stares at the picture, his brow fretting. “Yes. Her name is Ms. Davenport.”

“When did you meet her?”

“Late one night. Mr. Hope woke me up and we drove to an empty building. I was really tired but I remember. She was tied up to a chair.”

“Was she awake?”

“Yes. Usually they aren’t, but she was. She was crying, and saying she wanted to go home.”

“What happened next?”

“Mr. Hope pulled her hair and slapped her face. She cried even more. Then he pulled out a gun and yelled at her, asking her all these questions about where she worked and why they weren’t moving the shipmempts.”

“Let the court records show that Beth Davenport was acting Junior Minister of Transportation — specifically, exports.” The stenographer nods, and clicks on his typewriter. “What else happened, Sherlock?”

“She said she didn’t know. She said they were under new management, and were being investigated. And then Mr. Hope asked if they could trace it to anyone other than her, and she said no. And then he asked me if I could tell if she was lying…” Sherlock purses his lips, eyes growing to the size of saucers.

“And was she? Lying?”

“You’re Honour, Counsel is leading the witness,” Mr. Frame interjects.

“I’ll retract: how did you answer when he asked if she was lying, Sherlock?”

“I said she was,” Sherlock says, his voice shrinking. “I didn’t mean to, but I could tell, and if I lied to Mr. Hope it was always worse later.”

“What do you mean?”

“I lied once to him and when he found out he pushed me to the floor and tied a belt around my neck. It hurt really bad, and when I woke up, I was in a dark closet. I didn’t get to come out for a long time.” The collective gasps of horror through out the courtroom telecast the shock and disgust felt in stereo. John, clenching his jaw so hard he fears his teeth will crack, glares at the dock where Hope is standing as cool as ever. He has to tamp down his sudden, boiling rage.

“Easy,” Greg says, tugging the bumblebee he is currently mangling out of his hands.

“Jesus Christ,” John shudders out, bracketing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “Jesus _Christ,_ Greg.”

“I know.”

The court settles down with a gesture from the Judge, and Sherlock looks up at him.

“Did I do something wrong?”

The Judge blinks at him, surprised. “No, lad. Mr. Angelo is going to ask you more questions now, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” he says, clasping his hands anxiously in his lap.

“After you told Mr. Hope Ms. Davenport was lying, what happened next?” Angelo says.

“He hit her again until she started bleeding on the mouth, and then he left for a minute. When he came back, there was a boy in handcuffs and tape over his mouth with him.”

Mr. Angelo opens the dossier again and pulls out another photo. “Was this the boy Mr. Hope brought in?”

“Yes.”

“Let the record show victim number two is one James Phillimore, Beth Davenport’s son,” Angelo says, showing the jury a photo of a smiling young man no older than eighteen. “What happened next?”

“Mr. Hope pulled out a gun and pushed it against his head. He said he would shoot him if she didn’t tell him who else she told. She finally told him she had a friend named Jeffrey who worked at the bank.”

Angelo pulls out a third photo. “Did you ever meet this Jeffrey?”

“Yes. But that was a few days later,” Sherlock says.

“Is this him?” he says showing him the glossy 8x10.

“Yes. That’s him.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, victim number three: Sir Jeffrey Patterson. He used to supervise trade going in and out of south-east Asia.” Murmurs from the jury circulate through out the room, and John sits straighter in his seat. Angelo turns back to the witness box. “Now Sherlock, I am going to show you one more picture and ask you a few more questions, and then my colleague Mr. Frame is going to talk to you. Is that all right?”

Sherlock pinches his lips together, his face growing even paler if that were possible. Dauntless, he nods his head. “Yes. Okay.”

Angelo gives him a winning smile. “Now, can you tell me if you know this woman?” he says showing him the forth and last photo.

“Yes. Her name was Mrs. Wilson. She worked for the television.”

“Jennifer Wilson: victim number four,” Angelo confirms showing the photo of a woman with blond hair, and a pink dress suit with polka dots. “Journalist for CAM Global. Also found dead in an abandoned building also having apparently taken her life with some unidentified poison.”

“Medicine,” Sherlock whispers. Mr. Angelo whips around, surprised.

“What?”

“Medicine,” he says louder. “There is a good medicine and a bad medicine, and if you don’t choose right…”

“What do you mean by ‘choose’, Sherlock?”

“Mr. Hope he — that’s what he would do. He would say that I had to be smart, and that all life was is chess. You have to try to be smarter than the next person in order to survive. Sometimes when I got too hungry, I would ask him for food, and he said I could only have some if I played the Game.”

“Tell me about the game. How do you play it?” Angelo says, an intent look on his face. Clearly this is something he hadn’t anticipated, and his eyes shine with a feral sort of eagerness. He remains patient with Sherlock, however, and places his hand back on the polished wood of the witness box.

Sherlock is quiet for a moment, face scrunching up a little as if he is about to cry, but he smoothes it out, and breathes deep.

“There are two bottles. One has the good pill, and one has the bad pill. Mr. Hope says that I have to choose. I have to try and think how he does. If I choose right I can eat, but if I choose wrong it doesn’t matter because I won’t have to eat ever again.”

Various noises of outrage erupt in the court room, and John reels, almost dizzy with the knowledge he just learned.

 _“Bastard,”_ Greg says next to him, his face lined and grey.

“Your Honour,” Frame says rising to his feet again. “Objection on grounds of relevance.”

“I am attempting to distinguish a point of reference seeing as how no one knows exactly how the accused may have led his victims to kill themselves,” Angelo rebuts.

“I’ll allow it, Mr. Angelo but, you need to start pulling your argument together,” Judge Graham says, his voice stern.

“Duly noted,” he clips. “Sherlock: did Mr. Hope play ‘The Game’ with any of these victims?”

“Yes,” he says.

“Which ones?”

“All of them.”

“Mr. Hope made people guess on which pill was poisoned or not?” Angelo clarifies.

“Not always like that. He made Ms. Davenport choose for both her and her son, and the others…sometimes he would play too. He called it chess, said he knew how people think. And that it didn’t matter if they chose in the end because he always knew which one they would pick.” Sherlock shudders, bringing up his hands to press on either side of his head.

“Let it be known that the witness’s testimony coincides with the evidence brought to light in the investigation of four serial suicides perpetrated by the accused. Your witness, Mr. Frame,” Mr. Angelo says, and takes his seat.

“Sherlock,” Mr. Frame starts, striding towards the witness box. “Did you actually see the victims die?”

Sherlock flinches violently, and John decides just then that he doesn’t much care for Mr. Frame. “N-no.”

“But you were in the room when they did?”

“Yes.”

“How is it you didn’t see them die, then?” he says. John balls his fists.

“I — my eyes were closed. I didn’t want to watch when they…”

“It was quite scary, yes?” Frame says, false sympathy creeping into his voice.

“Yes.”

“Do you close your eyes a lot when things are going badly?”

“Um, yes?”

“And do you close your eyes a lot around Mr. Hope?”

“Yes. He likes to shout a lot and throw things.”

“I see. You must cover your ears too, then?”

“Your Honour, is this circular questioning going to come to an end anytime soon?” Mr. Angelo interjects.

“I am merely trying to ascertain how much the witness may have _actually_ witnessed, as opposed to, shall we say, imagined.”

Judge Graham eyes both the counsel men, thick eyebrows furrowing in consternation. “I’ll allow this line of questioning,” he decides.

“Sherlock, if you closed your eyes and covered your ears, how do you know these people didn’t take the pills under their own free will?”

“I know because of the gun,” Sherlock says. Mr. Frame freezes.

“Gun? What gun?”

“He would point a gun at them and say…” Sherlock shifts on the stool. He brings his hand up and cocks his fingers into an ‘L’ shape and aims it at Mr. Frame. “He would say ‘you have to take your medicine, or else.’ ”

Mr. Frame turns his back on Sherlock, glaring at his client. The man in the dock shrugs, placidly unconcerned. John frowns, a niggling suspicion growing in the back of his mind. There was something off about Hope; his nonchalance just too unnerving.

“Sherlock. How did you come to live with Mr. Hope?” Frame says, regrouping.

“I…my Father. He left me with him.”

“Why did he do that?”

“B-because,” Sherlock licks his lips. “Because he had to g-go away.”

“Where did he go?”

“I…” Sherlock says, eyes darting up to John in the gallery. He squeezes them shut, hard for a moment. “I don’t know.”

“Where did he go, Sherlock? Did he say when he would come back?” Frame presses.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says again.

“Did he have any sort of contact with you at all?”

“No.”

“How long were you with Mr. Hope?” Frame says, his wiry form looming over Sherlock.

“A l-long time,” Sherlock says, wringing his hands.

“What? Months? Years? You do know how to count, don’t you?” At this, Sherlock purses his lips into a wobbly line, eyes glistening.

“Badgering! Badgering the witness!” Mr. Angelo barks, jumping to his feet in a fury. John drags his fingers through his hair feeling impotent. If he ever sees Frame outside of the courtroom, he will have no qualms with punching the bastard square in the nose.

The Judge, likewise disgruntled, straightens in his seat. “This is the only time I will warn you to be delicate with the witness, Mr. Frame. _Mind yourself.”_

Frame gives a curt nod, still staring at Sherlock like a hawk.

“What is your father’s name, Sherlock?” he asks in an even voice.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says quickly. Almost too quickly.

“Was it, _James Moriarty?”_ he hisses, vindictive.

If John thought Sherlock looked pale before, it is nothing compared to what he looks like now. He looks positively transparent, his eyes shimmering with tears, and his lips pressed so thinly they look invisible. He wobbles a little on the stool, looking increasingly unsteady, and John’s heart clenches with the need to go to him. If John had wings, he would swoop in and pluck Sherlock out of the witness box and hide him somewhere safe where no one would ever cause him this much distress ever again.

“I don’t know!” he says.

“I think you’re lying, Sherlock,” Mr. Frame tuts, and Sherlock begins to cry in earnest.

“Greg,” John grits out, his pulse pounding.

“I know. _Christ,”_ he says just as angry, placing a hand on John’s shoulder.

“Remember what Mr. Angelo said. You must tell the truth, Sherlock! Now: was your father’s name James Moriarty?” the horrible man presses. John rues the fact his gun is in his safe back at Baker Street and not on his person.

“Your Honour!” Angelo objects.

“The court needs an answer, Mr. Angelo,” Judge Graham sighs. He turns to Sherlock. “Young man, I am afraid I need you to answer the question. Please ask again, Mr. Frame.”

“Was your father —?”

 _“I’m not supposed to say it!”_ Sherlock blurts out, his face splotchy and scrunched into a terrified, yet furious expression.

“Why not?”

“Because bad things happen to people who know his name!” Sherlock says, tears dripping off his chin. John closes his eyes, trying to overcome the stinging in his own.

“What do you mean by that, Sherlock?” Mr. Frame says a little quieter, but no less commanding. He’s like a cobra, and Sherlock snaps his spine straight, eyes wide, and John can’t help but think of prey. Sherlock answers him as if compelled to.

“He t-told me! He said…if I ever told his name to anybody ever again, he would have to do things. Bad things. I didn’t mean to tell, but there was this nice lady that came to the house to clean, only she wasn’t really there to clean because she kept asking me questions. She was nice and gave me lollies, and when she asked if I wanted to play a quizzing game I said yes. She asked me my Father’s name and I…I told her!

“My Fath — he found out. And he had to take her away with a blindfold and said it was my fault she was going to die. She was crying, and her face was bleeding, and it was my fa-fault! My fault!” Sherlock says, his narrow chest heaving with his desperately suppressed sobs.

“You told her that his name was James Moriarty?” Frame asks.

Sherlock answers a hiccupping, “Y-es,” before Angelo can raise any possible objection. Victorious, Frame spins away from Sherlock and marches up to his table where a sheaf of papers sit clipped together.

“If it pleases the court, please let the bedside testimony of one, DS Anderson; undercover for the West Yorkshire Police be entered in as evidence, _in absentia,_ to corroborate further enquires made about one, James Moriarty. Detective Sergeant Anderson was found just over two years ago just outside of Leeds in a ditch, brutalised within an inch of her life.

“She managed to share what happened and gave a description of the man responsible before she later succumbed to her injuries. One thing she insisted on before she died was that, quote, ‘…someone save the boy,’ end quote,” Frame says, reading from the transcript in his hands. “When asked what she meant, she seemed confused, disorientated, and kept mumbling the phrase, quote, ‘mon petit cherie’ and ‘the boy, the boy, save the boy,’ end quote.”

At the last, Frame scrutinises Sherlock, noting the way he hunches in on himself as he begins to hyperventilate. He is shaking so hard John worries for a moment he isn’t breathing. He actually does get to his feet at this point, and has to be forcibly tugged back down by Greg lest he get thrown out for contempt of court.

“One final question, Sherlock. What was this lady’s name?”

Before Sherlock can answer, Angelo jumps to his feet, face red. “Your Honour! What is the point of all this? Who exactly is on trial here?”

“Sustained,” Judge Graham says.

“Your Honour, bear with me. I am attempting to enlighten you and the members of the jury of the fact my client, who is clearly an unstable individual, could not have been the mastermind behind the cover up of one of the biggest arms-smuggling cases of the century. This evidence in conjunction with the witness’s testimony will prove Mr. Hope did not act alone, and instead was manipulated and blackmailed like the victims in question.”

The Judge gives him a hard look, debating silently for a moment. “You may continue, Mr. Frame, in a manner that is most diligent, if you will.”

Frame grins, while Angelo sputters. “Thank you.”

“But, your Honour!”

“Quiet, Mr. Angelo,” he warns, and nods to Mr. Frame.

“Sherlock. One more question, now. What was her name, hm?” Frame says, slithering closer towards the trembling boy like an eel. His serrated smile curves in a way that is probably supposed to make people feel at ease, but instead makes him look like a scarecrow. He adjusts his collar, taking his time. “The maid that worked for your father. What did you call her?”

Sherlock’s lips wobble. “She told me to call her Elizabeth.”

“Let the records show that DS Anderson’s alias while she was undercover was one Elizabeth Stuart, as was documented in the official police report. Furthermore —”

Frame is suddenly cut off by a harsh bark of laughter sounding from the back. Everyone in the courtroom snaps their attention to the dock where the accused stands, his lips curling in a bitter sneer.

“You _fool!”_ he shouts glaring at Mr. Frame.

“You are out of line, sir!” Judge Graham says, angrily.

“You weren’t supposed to stick your nose in it, you bastard! You just _had_ to go digging,” the man says ignoring the Judge, voice rising to almost hysterical levels.

“Mr. Hope! Get a hold of yourself, or I will hold you in contempt!”

 _“No-o,”_ comes Sherlock's pained whine from the witness box just as Hope shrieks, “It doesn’t matter! Don’t you see? I'm a dead man!”

“Order!”

Sherlock shakes his head, hands fisting in his hair. “No, no, no, no,” he chants, and John leaps to his feet again, this time out of Greg’s reach. The courtroom begins to stir at the uproar, several others standing or leaning forward for a better look at the unfolding drama. The Judge calls for a pair of burly court officers to take the defendant into custody. John shoves himself past people to get to the stairs leading down to the main floor.

“Ms. Jones, escort the witness!”

“Wait!” Mr. Angelo shouts, hurrying up to Sherlock. He’s cottoned on to something going by the fevered look in his eye. Dread is written on every inch of the barrister's face, and John clatters down the steps even faster, alarm ringing through out his every pore. He pushes through the lower gate only to be stopped by member of the court staff.

“Sir, you can’t be here!” the man, a solicitor going by his suit, shouts over the noise.

“Please, let me through!” John tries to shout over the frankly mad obscenities pouring from Hope’s mouth, and the Judge’s second call to order. “Sherlock!” he says, trying to shove forward. Another officer comes from behind him, and seizes his arm.

The two armed men start to drag Hope in the direction of the holding cells, just as John’s being manhandled back through the gate.

“Your Honour, please!” Angelo protests. “Something's wrong here! Has no one asked the witness to identify the accused?” His voice rings out like a bell, the simple yet far-fetched question so perplexing, it causes even John’s jailer to stutter to a halt. John tries to recall if this had ever been established, and comes up empty handed. It seems like such a trivial thing, but the fact is, Sherlock _is_ the only witness -- the only one who's ever known of Mr. Hope prior to his incarceration. Period. Suddenly, the lack of recognition on Sherlock's part makes complete sense, and a stone of dismay sinks to the pit of John's gut. This little detail, seemingly insignificant, has apparently been over looked until now.

“What are you on about?” Frame squawks, alarmed.

The Judge realises it too and stops the officers in their tracks, the deranged man still struggling and raving in their grasp. The press are in a frenzy, and the numerous other court staff devolve into a panic of papers and incredulous exclamations, adding to the melee. The Judge gets to his feet, both arms raised.

“ORDER!” he bellows, and just like that, everything slams to a deafening silence in the wake of his absolute authority. The only thing heard is Sherlock’s soft whimpers as he rocks back and forth with his hands over his ears, eyes tightly shut.

With a sharp look that means he’d better get to the point, Judge Graham jerks his chin at Angelo. The man takes it for what it is, and whirls around towards Sherlock.

Gently, he pulls Sherlock’s hands away from his head, and gets him to look up.

 _“Sherlock._ Sherlock, I know you’re scared, but you have to tell me: is this the man you know to be Mr. Hope?” He indicates the man hanging almost limply between the two guards.

Sherlock looks at him and then Angelo, and back again, confusion written all over his pained face. 

“No,” he says.

The revelation stuns the courtroom into more silence and John gasps, the breath knocked out of him.

The only thing that breaks the devastating quiet is another huff of laughter from the insane imposter.

“Too late,” he says with a sickening grin, and before anyone can stop him, proceeds to bite the inner part of his cheek until blood runs down his chin.

A woman to his left screams as he collapses into a convulsing heap, pink froth oozing out of his mouth. John shakes off the grip on his arm and leaps over the gate, former army training kicking in, hot gouts of adrenaline pumping through his veins.

“Get out of the way; I’m a doctor!” John yells, pushing people aside.

The small crowd circled around the fallen man parts for him, but when John gets to his side, the man is already dead, his glazed eyes staring vacantly upward. 

John's heart pounds against his ribs; his pulse roars in his ears.

The courtroom descends into chaos once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear. Poor Sherlock. He's been through the wringer, hasn't he? I will leave it up to you if you think Janine's advice was a good idea or not.
> 
> Haha I can practically hear you guys now: THIS IS WHY WE CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS, HONEY. God. I am a bit mean sometimes to bby Sherlock. Don't worry, there will be cuddles in the near future.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! Here is the real update for this story! Hooray! Thank you all for being so patient with me, and the encouraging words. My computer is still on the fritz, but for now we seem to be limping along. Just a warning...this chapter is a little intense. Possibly gratuitous amounts of h/c. Love you all.
> 
> xxHoney

Loud, loud, _LOUD!_

_It is all. too. loud._

Sherlock is convinced his head is going to explode, and he tries to block out as much of the sound as possible, because surely his skull can’t fit anything else inside it. The courtroom is too bright, and he wants to cover his eyes in addition to squeezing them shut, but he has to use his hands to clamp over his ears to keep out the noise. He crushes his teeth together and hums through his nose, the vibrations through his chest and behind his lips helping dull the pain a little.

The stool on which he is perched begins to feel unstable as the world around him tilts on it side. He starts to fall forward, but before he does, someone lifts him up and over the side of the witness box and into a warm and familiar embrace.

“Papa!” Sherlock wails, the comforting scent of John and safety washing over him as he buries his wet face into John’s chest. He doesn’t need to see to know it’s him.

“Oh, Sherlock. Oh, god Sherlock, I’m so sorry. I’m here, I’m here,” John says, the words sounding underwater through his hands. He can tell his voice is sad, so sad, and it makes Sherlock even more upset, and he can’t help the sobs that seem to tear their way out of his chest. It hurts to cry this hard, though, and he squeezes his hands even tighter against his head, burrowing further into John’s arms.

People all around are still yelling and shouting, and Sherlock makes the mistake of opening his eyes. They immediately lock onto a man laying on the ground, his face covered in frothy-pink sick contorted in an awful grimace. It takes Sherlock a moment to realise that he is the man pretending to be Mister Hope, and then another moment before he realises he’s dead. His stomach lurches unpleasantly, and he forces himself to look away. 

“Close your eyes, love,” John murmurs, and even though they are already closed, Sherlock squeezes them shut even tighter.

For a few short moments, he manages to lose himself in the grey din of his humming, and the tiny starbursts of lights behind his eyelids. He falls away from himself for a little while, a sensation where his body doesn’t feel real, and the only thing that exists is that small, safe place in the centre of himself. He would go there sometimes when he was either scared or hurt until the danger passed. He doesn’t know how long he stays there this time, but it must not have been too long, because when he emerges, he sees they are still in the courthouse in the room with the red chairs.

John’s hand is stroking the back of his neck as he sits with his cheek pressed to his chest. The steady thrumming of John’s heart is soothing, and Sherlock takes a deep breath of the scent of laundry soap and safety, his eyes slipping closed.

“There you are,” John murmurs into the top of his curls. Sherlock feels drained from everything, and the only thing he manages is to snuggle tighter under John’s chin.

The door opens with a groan, and Sherlock flinches, the tremors crawling up his spine again making his teeth chatter. John tightens his hold, and starts to rock gently back and forth. It doesn’t help the feeling of ants marching over his skin, though, so he buries his face in the soft jumper beneath his cheek.

“How is he?” comes a familiar, gruff voice.

“He’s shook up, clearly. I need to get him out of here,” John says, voice tight.

“The press is a madhouse. I called Donovan in so we can get an escort for you both.”

“Will they follow us to Baker Street?”

“Ah, no. But…I have to ask the both of you to come down to the station with me.”

“You’re joking, right? I need to get him home, Greg.”

“You know I wouldn’t ask unless it was absolutely necessary. Everything’s fucked, John. We’re thinking someone in the department has been compromised. The records —”

“It’s not my bloody fault your people are incompetent!” John growls.

“My hands are tied, John! I’ve got nothing to go on, and no one to blame for the deaths of four people! If there was any other way, you know I would spare you — him — I would spare him any more trauma if I could.” Inspector Lestrade’s voice breaks at the end and Sherlock can feel John hold his breath. He lets the air out of his lungs slowly.

“What do you need from him?”

“I need him to talk to a sketch artist of mine.”

“Are you sure you can trust your man? What with your department being _compromised?”_ John grits.

“Yes. He has a personal stake in this, and he wants to catch the bastard more so than me, even.”

“What do you mean?”

“His sister was one of the victims — the Sergeant left for dead. Getting to Hope is one step closer to blowing the lid off this whole thing.”

“Getting to Moriarty, you mean,” John says. Sherlock flinches at the sound of _his_ name. That comforting hand comes to rest against the back of his neck again. “Dammit, Greg.”

“I know,” he says, and Sherlock feels the other man crouch down next to him. “Hey,” he croons, “I have a friend for you, sport.”

Curious, Sherlock turns his head and peeps out at the policeman with the nice careworn face. He holds up his bumblebee, and grateful, Sherlock takes it from him feeling a little better. “Are we going with Mister Lestrade, now?” he asks John.

“I’m afraid so, Bones,” he says quietly, brushing the hair back from Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock nods wearily, and leans his head back against John’s chest, breathing deep as he is gathered close once more.

A knock sounds, and the door opens. “Sir? I’ve got a car ‘round back.”

“Thank you, Sally,” Inspector Lestrade says. John gets to his feet, and the motion causes Sherlock’s stomach to lurch in warning. He keeps his eyes closed all through out the journey to the car and on the ride to the police station, his head swimming.

“John, my head hurts,” Sherlock whispers as they ride the lift to the third floor. He winces at the buzzing lights, and the loud dinging of the floors. “I want to go home.”

“I know, sweetheart. Just a little longer, then we’ll be done,” John says, pressing a kiss into his temple. John follows the Inspector through a forest of office desks, and ringing phones. The shrill whine of a machine printing off various papers makes Sherlock’s teeth ache strangely, and the stale smell of coffee makes his mouth water with nausea. Luckily, Mister Lestrade takes them into a quiet office, away from all the overwhelming chaos.

“Mr. Anderson will be here shortly, but John I have one more favour to ask you,” Mister Lestrade says.

John’s face darkens as he settles Sherlock onto the plastic-smelling couch. “What?”

“It’s about…the body. Molly’s processing it as we speak, but there’s something she can’t quite identify — a tattoo she thinks — and she has requested your particular brand of expertise.” Mister Lestrade slides a look at Sherlock, and Sherlock knows that he is doing that thing adults do where they are trying to say something without saying what it is outright. John narrows his gaze, but before he can answer, a knock sounds, and Mister Lestrade opens it, shaking hands with a man with a brown briefcase under his arm.

“Sorry I’m late, Inspector.”

“Not to worry, Philip. Please take a seat, and thank you for coming down here on such short notice.” He motions for the man named Philip to sit in one of the chairs closest to Sherlock.

“You must be Dr. Watson,” Philip says, extending a hand.

“Yes, nice to meet you Mr. Anderson,” John says, curtly accepting the greeting.

“And this must be Sherlock,” Philip says, his eyes, like two black beads, glinting. It makes Sherlock feel a little uncomfortable, and he quickly looks down at the hands in his lap. “Do you know what it is I do, Sherlock?”

“No,” he whispers.

“I’m going to ask you questions, and then I’m going to draw a picture. Sounds like fun, right?” he says with a wide grin. Sherlock thinks his smile has too many teeth, and that it would look a lot more sincere without his beard. He looks at John with a pleading expression.

John purses his lips, but before he can say anything, Mister Lestrade’s phone rings.

“Hey Molls,” he says with a pointed look at John. “Yeah I can get you on the livestream. Can you hold?” He cradles the mobile against his ear with his shoulder while he rummages around for a laptop.

“Sherlock,” John says, taking his hand. It’s a shock at how warm it is against his own icy skin. Noticing this, John frowns, and takes up both of his hands, kneading a bit of warmth into them with his sure fingers. “I’m going to step out with Greg for a moment, all right?”

“You need to help Molly?” he asks.

“That’s right.” He pulls Sherlock’s mobile out of his jacket pocket where he was keeping it safe. “You can get a hold of me anytime with this, but I’ll not be far. And if you get done before me, it’s your turn on the Scrabble,” he winks.

Sherlock nods despite the stinging in his eyes, and the anxiety that rises up at the thought of being left alone. John smiles, and kisses him on the forehead before following Mister Lestrade — Greg, out into the hall. He turns his wary gaze to the other man, a frisson of nervousness growing the longer he grins at him.

“You’re very smart, aren’t you, Sherlock?” Philip Anderson says. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“You have?” Sherlock whispers, clutching his phone tightly.

“Yes,” Philip says. There is a pause where Anderson regards him with that glint in his eye again, almost like the sharks Sherlock remembers from the aquarium. The moment passes, and he pulls out a blank pad of paper and a pencil. “Shall we get started?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, and instead begins to sketch something down. After several minutes, Sherlock shifts anxiously in his seat. He thought he was supposed to answer questions, and he worries, irrationally, that he’s done something wrong. There’s a sort of manic energy about Philip that reminds him of — of his Father. And that never bodes well.

Finally, when Sherlock is just about ready to dial John’s number and tell him to come back, Philip lifts his pencil with a flourish, and sticks it behind his ear. He turns the pad of paper around, and fixes him with a grave stare. “Do you know who this is?” he asks quietly.

Sherlock looks down at the drawing, and sucks in a breath. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but the image of a woman with dark curly hair, and a wide brimming smile wasn’t it. Even though it’s a pencil drawing, her dark eyes sparkle the same way he remembers. _'Mon petit cherie.'_

“Elizabeth?” he says. Mister Anderson closes his eyes, his fingers tightening around the pad.

“Betony,” he rasps. “Her name is — _was_ Betony.” Sherlock frowns, not sure he understands, but nods anyway. “Do you know what happened to her?”

“The…the Judge said she got hurt. Is she okay?” he asks, afraid he already knows the answer.

“No,” the man says, his voice a dry croak. “She’s gone, Sherlock. But the man that hurt her — you know him don’t you?”

Sherlock freezes in place, his heart banging against his ribs. Surely he doesn’t mean —?

“M-Mister Hope?” he guesses, hoping…

“No,” Mister Anderson says, taking up his pencil and pad. “Not Jefferson Hope. He is but a fly caught in the spider’s web,” he says darkly, swiping furiously against the paper. Sherlock cranes his neck to see what he is drawing, and only manages to catch the sight of deep swaths of angry graphite. “She wasn’t quite dead. Did you know that, Sherlock? She died in hospital. Too many internal injuries. But I managed to talk to her one last time.” He pauses here, gouging frenetically, a lank strand of brown hair hanging in his eyes. “She told me all about your father.”

Sherlock’s head throbs, and he gasps as icy dread crashes over him. He knew he shouldn’t have said anything! And now _he_ will know, because there are too many people who know already, and they will tell that Sherlock told.

“Wh-what?” he rasps, trembling. Bright flares of light streak across his vision until he feels as if a bird is pecking at his eyes. He pulls his knees to his chest.

“The man you call father!” Anderson barks, looking up with a hard gaze. Sherlock doesn’t move. “James Moriarty!” he spits when Sherlock stares blankly at him. “My sister died because of that man, it’s true. But you know what else? The only reason she got caught was because she was trying to go back for you.”

Sherlock’s eyes grow wide before snapping shut, the thought too awful to think about. He claps his hands over his ears, and with an angonised sob, tries to block out this man’s accusing words. “No! I – I didn’t —!”

“Yes, you did, Sherlock,” come the grave, heartsick words. Sherlock can feel movement beside him, and his wrists are gently, but firmly taken in hand and pried away from his pounding head. “But it’s okay now, see?” Anderson says through a broken grin. “You have the ability to help me now. To help _her.”_ Sherlock hiccups through his tears, shaking his head. “Yes, you _can._ You can help me by finishing the picture she left behind.”

Anderson brings the pad of paper closer, showing him a half drawn face with short, dark hair, and a pointed chin. The nose and mouth are missing, as well as other defining aspects that make it a face, but those gimlet eyes are unmistakable. Sherlock cries out in alarm, attempting to move back as if this half-rendered version of his Father is about to leap off the page, but a strong hand clamps around both of his wrists, tugging him forward.

“Look at him! Tell me how to finish him!” Anderson hisses manically, shaking Sherlock until his head feels as if it’s ready to explode.

 _“No!”_ he shrieks, kicking out wildly, half-blind with tears and pain. A sickly, hot trickle of wetness pours out of his nose, and gets into his mouth tasting sharp and salty and a bit like rust. _“Let me go!”_

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON IN HERE?!”

Sherlock can’t see, but he feels himself suddenly released from the vice like grip as Anderson is literally thrown off of him. Sherlock manages to squint through the blur of his lashes, and sees Anderson smashed up against the wall, pinned viciously by John.

“Wait! John!” Lestrade yells, charging into the office a moment later.

“I don’t know _who_ you’ve got working for you, Lestrade, but this is just – not – ON!” John snarls, banging a terrified Mister Anderson back into the wall until the pad of paper wedged between them falls to the floor. Sherlock’s eyes light on the fallen notebook, and to his horror, dozens upon dozens of those piercing, black eyes glare back at him from the open pages. This time they are _definitely_ coming after him, and in absolute terror, Sherlock screams.

The commotion in the room increases tenfold, and through the chaos, Sherlock can hear Lestrade yelling at John, and John yelling at Anderson, and it’s so loud inside his head he suddenly can’t breathe.

“John!”

“You son of a bitch! What did you do to him you bastard?!”

“No, please —! Unhand me, you don’t understand!”

“I will _murder you for touching him!”_

“DOCTOR WATSON! Let. Him. Go. NOW!”

“Inspector! He knows! He —!”

“You _shut your mouth,_ Phil! John; your child needs you.”

“I’ll fucking kill him if he comes near, Greg I swear to god…”

“John! Go to Sherlock!”

“Get _him_ the fuck out of here!”

There is too much. Too much. He _needs_ the yelling to stop. He mashes his palms into his ears.

“Papa! Pa – pa…!”

Sherlock can’t pull in enough air, and he screws his eyes shut, and wails as another bout of pain tears open his skull.

Careful fingers try to pull his hands away from his head again, and he flinches violently, gasping through the constricting band that has wrapped itself around him. There are more words, strung tight like crossbows, that manage to penetrate the barrier of his hands over his ears. It only belongs to one voice, instead of a cacophony of several, and with as much strength as he can muster, he cracks open one eye only to regret it when the light sears him.

“Hold on, Sherlock…”

There is a sharp snap, and a welcome cool, dimness swathing his burning eyelids, and the relief is so profound, he gulps in huge draughts of air.

Someone, no — _John_ comes near, and gently wipes his face and nose with a damp cloth. It’s probably meant to be soft, but it feels like sandpaper against his skin, and he tries to cringe away. Strong fingers hold his chin in place, and Sherlock weakly pushes at him with numb hands that refuse to work.

“Stop — Sherlock! _Stop._ Did he hit you? Sherlock? Why is there so much blood?” John asks him earnestly.

Sherlock hears the words, knows he’s been asked a question, but his brain refuses to make sense of it. He struggles away from the firm hold John has on his head, trying to push himself further into the sofa he’s seated on. There’s nowhere to retreat to, however, and he can’t help but sob in distress.

John curses, and before he knows what’s happening, Sherlock is scooped up in a crushing embrace that instantly makes him go limp with relief. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he is cradled tightly across John’s lap that when he buries his face in John’s shirt he can almost pretend they are back at home and this day is far, far behind him. He can pretend they are on their sofa in their sitting room with the funny wallpaper watching the end of _Treasure Island,_ and in a moment Sherlock is going to ask if they can watch it again. John will roll his eyes and tease him and call him Long John Silver, but he’ll rewind it anyway, and maybe he’ll get up and make them both big bowls of vanilla ice cream with strawberry jam on top.

He just has to pretend for a little while longer, and soon it will all be okay.

“That’s right, love. You’re all right, shh,” John croons, combing his fingers through Sherlock’s curls as he rocks them gently, back and forth. “I’ve got you.”

Sherlock doesn’t know how long he sits curled in John’s lap like that, but it must be a while because when he opens his eyes the light outside the window isn’t as bright as before. It still makes his head ache, but it’s more of a dull throb instead of that spearing agony piercing his skull.

“J-Jhn?” he mumbles, his tongue thick like cotton.

“Hey, Bones,” John whispers, stroking his cheek with the pads of his fingers. Sherlock shudders, and closes his eyes. His eyelids feel hot and fevery, and that sickening pressure gathers again in the middle of his face until it is released in a hot rush that drips sluggishly down onto his upper lip. He whimpers slightly. “Oh god — hang on,” John says raising Sherlock up to a sitting position. He holds that damp cloth to his nose again, and Sherlock can taste the coppery blood in the back of his throat. It makes him want to gag. “Does anything hurt?”

“My head,” he says, throat scratchy and overwrought. 

“Did Mr. Anderson hurt you?”

“N-no. He wanted me — to help him finish his picture.”

“Of Mr. Hope?” John says carefully.

“Of my —” Sherlock chokes and shudders even harder, a wave of clammy nausea washing through him.

“All right, shh shh, it’s okay,” John says rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder blades.

He sags in John’s arms, utterly exhausted, his head feeling heavy and his limbs like wet noodles. John takes the cloth away, discarding it swiftly so the scent of cloying blood doesn’t continue to agitate Sherlock’s overwhelmed senses. He tries to remain upright on his own without John’s other hand, but his muscles give out, and he wobbles.

A warm palm settles against his chest, and he is gently tipped back into the cradle of John’s arms, his poor head settling comfortingly in the crook of an elbow. Fingers press into the pulse at his neck, before the back of John’s hand checks his forehead.

“…t’me a s'ory?” Sherlock slurs, exhaustion sinking him down and down and down. He tries to keep his eyes open.

“You want me to tell you a story?” John asks, voice hoarse.

“Mmh,” Sherlock says, burrowing even closer into that warm place where he can still make believe they are back at Baker Street. “Pease, Papa? Pease?” he begs, voice very very small.

“Okay. Shut your eyes.” He clears his throat with a low rumble, and Sherlock is already half asleep before John even says the beginning of all stories that are full of promise and happy endings.

_“Once upon a time…”_

Sherlock's eyes are closed, and for a little while, he can forget and simply pretend…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anderson is a bastard. But did we expect anything less?


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gadzooks! A chapter?! Yes. A Chapter.

John kneads his left hand with his right, massaging the swelling in his bruised knuckles as he stares at the sleeping boy in the hospital bed.

Sherlock looks so tiny against the crisp sheets and big white pillow, his curls a messy halo framing his face. Even in sleep, his brow furrows, and his breaths are shallow with lingering distress. John can’t help himself from combing back his fringe, hoping his presence will ease what ever is keeping him from a restorative slumber. He wishes there was a way to shut off the glow of the mandatory safety light left on by the sink, knowing Sherlock would prefer utter darkness in this state. For now, its dim fluorescence serves to make him look pallid and ghostly. John swallows around the hard lump of worry lodged in this throat. After a moment he sags, bracing his forearms on his knees, chest aching on every exhale.

After John managed to calm Sherlock down in Lestrade's office, his doctor instincts kicked in, and he wasted no time bringing him to St. Bart’s. This time around it was obvious Sherlock’s headache was more than just an ordinary migraine, if the alarming hemorrhaging was anything to go by. 

His first thought when he burst in to find Sherlock’s face covered in blood was that that _bastard_ Anderson had hurt him somehow, maybe smacked him across the face. It was lucky for the both of them that Sherlock’s nosebleed was unrelated to him being a dick, because if that weasel had physically harmed his son, John would more than likely be sitting in a cell for attempted murder right now. Chances are, that shit-waste-of-space is already pressing charges against him if his threats and broken nose are anything to go by. Agitated, John scrubs his hands though his hair, trying to push that lingering jolt of unease to the back of his mind.

“Knock, knock,” comes a soft greeting from the open doorway. Ever alert, John’s head shoots up, adrenaline sparking in his veins with nowhere to go. Molly takes a few steps into the room bearing two styrofoam cups, and John forces his heart rate to settle down. He can see the steam curling from the plastic lid belying something hot and very much needed, and he groans in appreciation.

“Is that tea?” John demands, totally forgetting what little manners he might've had left at three in the morning.

Molly smiles, and hands John one of the cups. “Coffee, I’m afraid.”

“It’ll do,” John says, gulping too large a mouthful. It burns the roof of his mouth, but he’s too grateful to really care. “Thank you.”

She nods, eyes travelling to Sherlock, a worrisome crease between her delicate brows. She takes a thoughtful sip. “How is he?”

John clenches his jaw, absolutely frustrated with that question simply because he doesn’t have an answer. “I don’t know, Molly,” his hand shakes, “They – they ran scans, but nothing came up.”

“Well…that’s good, isn’t it?”

John grimaces. “Not exactly. At least if there was something, they would know what needed to be fixed. They think maybe the problem lies within his blood somewhere, but it’s hard to know what to look for when I know virtually nothing about his family medical history.”

“Doesn’t he have a brother?”

John scoffs. “If only it were that simple to get a hold of the bloody ponce.”

Molly frowns as John combs his fingers through his hair yet again. With a decisive nod, she takes the cup from his other hand and pulls him to his feet. “Come on. You could use a walk.”

It’s a relief to be out of the small hospital room, John concedes, if only for a little bit. The taut muscles in his neck and shoulders are just beginning to loosen, and he feels like he can breathe. The respite, he knows, won't last very long, and sure enough he's proven right when they round a corner.

“Dr. Hooper,” Inspector Lestrade says, spotting them from down the corridor. John groans inwardly, and drops his gaze to his coffee cup.

“Good evening, Inspector,” Molly says.

“I thought I'd pop over and take a look at that stiff that's just come in,” he says. John can feel Lestrade's gaze lingering on him, and he clears his throat, “Your expertise is wanted too, John, if it's not too much trouble.”

John simply nods his acquiescence, knowing Lestrade is telling him, not asking, and follows them both down to the morgue. The elevator ride is an awkward one between them, and John wonders if this is another tactic of making John feel guilty for punching his sketch artist. Thank god for Molly, though. Her steady chatter about nothing in particular is a relief, if a short-lived one.

“...probably some form of chronic halitosis. So, anyway, that's why I don't get my allergy meds from _that_ Boots anymore,” Molly says, pushing open the heavy metal doors.

She walks over to the large refrigeration unit and unlatches one of the doors, letting it swing back on its hinges with a heavy groan. She rolls out the tray, a black body bag coming to a stop between her, and him and Greg.

Molly clears her throat in the silence, and unzips the bag without further ado.

The man's face is plain, nondescript, his hair a dull brown with a modest receding hairline. An average sort of bloke, however, John can't help but find him somewhat familiar. His frown deepens when Molly moves to uncover his shoulders, an inkling already forming before the skin on the man's bicep is revealed.

“Same tattoo as our Mr. Hope?” Lestrade asks, cocking his head to the side. John knows it is even before Molly confirms it.

Although the other tattoo she showed them was distorted through the web cam, there was no mistaking it to be anything other than a military tattoo. It featured a set of standard L115A3 rifles crossed under a capital 'S', a match to the one they are staring at now.

“Do you have a name for this bloke, or is he just a John Doe?” John says, unable to tear his eyes away from the man's tattoo.

“Do you know him?” Lestrade says, slanting John a keen look.

“I don't know...” he says, trailing off.

Molly looks between them for a beat. “This one was a body dump, according to DS Dimmock. Most likely drowned in the Thames. No wallet.”

“Can we see the other body again?” John asks. There is something there just under the surface, taunting the edges of his mind with this whole thing.

“Sure,” Molly says, opening the adjacent cooler.

John's skin crawls when Molly unveils the face of the imposter. A violent streak of satisfaction bolts through him at the sight of the man's lifeless form. It startles him, frankly, and he takes a moment to stow his rage so he can look over the body with a clinical eye. He scans the man's face, looking for anything out of the ordinary.

"Are we still agreed he died of a cyanide capsule hidden in his cheek?" John asks, leaning closer.

"For the time being, yes," Molly says. "I took some samples off the backs of his teeth. Something tells me it was more than cyanide, though."

John is about to ask her what makes her think so when something suddenly catches his eye.

“Those are signs of plastic surgery,” John says, pointing out the nearly invisible scar lines under the chin, and around the hairline. “Up close there are obvious signs of a face lift, chin augmentation, and probably a nose job too.”

Molly bends over the body, gazing intently at the areas John pointed out. “Oh yes. I see.”

“Was it for cosmetic purposes?” Lestrade asks, shuffling closer, brows drawn downward.

“No. I suspect they were just another part of this man's fiction. If he borrowed someone's name, why not someone's face as well?” John muses. He looks over at the other body and makes his way back over to its side. “There's similar scarring on John Doe.” John's eyes land on the matching tattoos again, frowning hard until he has to pinch the bridge of his nose to keep a sudden headache at bay.

“What is it?” Molly says.

“I swear there's something familiar about these two. I just can't put my finger on it,” he says. “Do you have gloves?”

Molly nods, and snags a pair from the cardboard box under the work surface. John tugs them on, and resumes his inspection of John Doe. He gently tips the man's head back to get a better look at the cosmetic scar. Nothing seems out of order, other than a slight discolouration behind the man's left jaw. A birthmark of some sort, faded with time, or perhaps a topical cream treatment. He gives it one more cursory glance before moving on with the rest of his examination.

“Anything?” Lestrade asks, rocking impatiently on his feet.

John gives a noncommittal hum, and shifts back over to Hope. Like he did on John Doe, John tilts the head back to get a sharper look at the pattern of scarring, only to freeze when he spots an identical faded blemish behind the left ear. This one is darker, and with a distinctive shape to it that tickles John's memory.

“Molly,” John says, beckoning her closer. Pieces of recognition begin to steal over him bit by bit. “What does that strike you as?”

Molly squints, leaning closer. “Hm. It could be a bruise, but I would need to get a closer look. Or a birthmark, given the shape of it. Hard to tell.”

John swallows. “It's a birthmark.”

“What? How can you tell?” Lestrade says.

“Because John Doe's got the same one. They're identical twins. Or...they were before the surgeries,” John says, dread rapidly congealing in his stomach.

“You do know them, then,” Lestrade says, scribbling in the notepad he conjured out of somewhere.

“Back when I was in the Army, there were two brothers assigned to my company. Snipers,” John says, touching a latex-clad finger to the black 'S' in the corpse's skin. “The pair of them were trouble from the start. Both on a hair-trigger, with the temper of a bloody freight train. They were remorseless, reckless. Snipers for sport, essentially. Nearly compromised a few missions I was involved in. They were fucking insane. I think they were on their eighth tour when I was only starting my fourth. Couldn't get enough of it.”

“What were their names?”

“Moran. Sebastian and Severin. Not sure how you can tell them apart now. But, I would bet money that this is them.”

“Why did they leave the Army if they were so invested?”

John hesitates.

“I'm not sure. I was invalided out not long after I met them. As far as I knew, they were still elbows-deep in sand and blood back in Kandahar. I thought nothing short of a well placed bullet would ever force them to give it up.” He strips off the gloves and balls them up, surprised at how easy the lie rolls off his tongue.

Lestrade nods, flipping his steno pad closed. “Thank you Molls,” he says, giving her a slow smile. She smiles back, blushing a bit.

John cocks an eyebrow, but Molly keeps her eyes averted as she sets about putting the morgue back in order.

“I wish I could tell you more,” John says to Lestrade. The Inspector, merely grunts. “Least I can do, considering the trouble I've been,” he adds. It's the closest thing to an apology he can muster.

Lestrade barks a laugh at his no doubt pathetic attempt. “It's all right, John. Between you and me, Anderson had it coming. He's not exactly the brightest bulb out there. Although, I should apologise myself. I should have had Sally at least sit in there with them. Poor judgment on my part.”

“Didn't think Sherlock would be at risk sitting in a police station.”

“Again, it's Anderson,” Lestrade says.

“...Is he looking to press charges?” John finally makes himself ask.

“Er, yeah. He is. At least he was going on about it. Quite loudly, I might add,” Lestrade says with an apologetic shrug. John pinches the bridge of his nose. “Look, I'll talk to him. See if I can get him to drop it. He's all bark and no bite, typically.”

“Thanks,” John says wearily. “Because this is the last thing I need.” He checks he watch, and worries the collar around his neck where it feels like it's chafing. “I should get back to Sherlock in case he wakes up.”

“Right,” Lestrade says, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Tell him I said hi,” Molly chimes in. “And when he's feeling up to it, I have some cool slides for him to look at with his microscope.”

“I'll tell him,” John says. He gives Lestrade's hand a firm shake. “Greg.”

“I'll let you know if anything else turns up. Oh, and let that Holmes fellow know I could use his expertise when he gets a chance.”

“I'm sorry, who?” John says.

“Sherlock's brother. I ran into him on the way here. He said he was here to see Sherlock – John?” Lestrade says, alarmed when John blanches and covers his eyes with his hand.

“Shit. _Shit._ Mycroft Holmes would be here, wouldn't he. Bloody great.”

“I'm sorry, John. I thought you knew.”

“Enigmatic bastard,” John mutters. “No, it's fine, Greg. I'll – I better – see you, Molly,” he fumbles, and makes his way out of the morgue at a brisk pace.

Typical. It's just like the self-important git to disappear for nearly a month with no word, and then just swoop in and make everything even more complicated. No doubt whatever his reason is for being here, it's to give John hell.

By the time he makes it back up to Sherlock's room, John's worked himself into a state, and he marches in, intent on ejecting the smug bastard forcibly if necessary. However, the sound of Sherlock's quiet voice behind the privacy curtain brings him up short.

“...How do you do that?” Sherlock asks, a precocious giggle just at the end of his eager question. John knows it well, and even though he has to strain a little to hear, there is no mistaking the delight in his Sherlock's voice. For this reason, John is loath to reveal himself.

“It's a secret,” Mycroft says, his deep voice warm and indulgent, the likes of which John has never heard before. Curious, John shifts so he can peer through the small gap.

Sherlock sits upright, looking up at Mycroft with big, shining blue eyes. In his lap is a paper napkin folded in the shape of a bird which Mycroft, with a theatrical roll of his eyes, plucks up and unfolds with his spidery fingers. He smooths it flat the best he can, and lowers himself into the chair next to the bed.

“Here, I'll do a simpler one. See if you can figure it out,” he says, and then proceeds to fold and fan the napkin until it resembles a peculiar triangle shape. He sets the creation back down in Sherlock's lap with a little flourish. “Voila”

“A shee-shell?” Sherlock queries, his head cocked as he stares at the thing on his knee.

“Sea shell,” Mycroft corrects. “And no. It's the Sydney Opera House.”

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. “I like the goose better.”

“ _Swan._ Honestly,” he huffs in mock-annoyance, unfolding and re-folding the napkin once more. Sherlock smiles brightly, clapping his hands when Mycroft sets the swan on the bed next to him. “Sherlock...” he says, the small playfulness of the moment slowly melting into something more serious. “Do you know why you're in hospital?”

“Mmhm,” Sherlock says, smile fading. He brings the swan closer to himself. “John says it's because of my mygain.”

“Your...migraine?” Mycroft says, and Sherlock nods sadly. “I see. Your head been hurting you? Hm?”

Sherlock nods again, eyes taking on a light sheen. He's quiet for a second, then in a tremulous whisper, “My head hurts real bad, sometimes.”

“Yes. I bet it does,” Mycroft says gravely. “I remember how that used to feel, myself.”

“You do?”

“Indeed. I used to get them like you.”

John perks up at this information.

“But you don't have them anymore?”

“I taught myself how to get rid of them,” Mycroft says. “Sometimes there is just too much in your head, and you don't know what to do with it all, yes?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says in a that small, ashamed voice that just about breaks John's heart.

“So, what do you do? You put things in their place, you tuck them away for later. Like picking up your toys and putting them in your toy chest. They are still there, but they aren't on the floor anymore, and now you can move around without tripping.” Mycroft dips his head, leveling him with a knowing look that pulls a watery grin out of Sherlock. “Mm. That's what I thought. What ever does John say?”

“That I'm messy,” Sherlock says.

“Of course you are, you abominable cretin.” John's hackles rise at this, but there's no need seeing as how Sherlock sniggers, his good spirits restored, kicking his feet under the blanket a little as if he's simply tickled at being called horrible. “You've got brain clutter, and need to store it all,” Mycroft diagnoses. Sherlock tilts his head with a puzzled little frown. “You don't believe me? I can tell,” he says rising as he wags a long finger in Sherlock's face. From out of thin air, it seems, Mycroft produces a stethoscope and shows it to Sherlock. “You know what this is, yes?”

“A stef-o-cope,” Sherlock says. “I have one at home.”

“Stethoscope. Yes,” Mycroft says and puts the earpieces in his ears with extreme seriousness. Sherlock watches him, riveted, as Mycroft warms the chestpiece between his hands. “Close your eyes,” he instructs, and then proceeds to press the diaphragm to the centre of Sherlock's forehead.

Sherlock laughs, eyes still closed. “That's not where it goes!”

“Shush,” Mycroft says, imperious. He tilts his head as if seriously listening, and pretends not to notice when Sherlock peeps through his lashes. 

This simple scene of Mycroft Holmes – The Venerable British Government and Mr. Perpetual Stick Up His Arse – _playing_ along with his baby brother, folding napkins into swans and participating in a bit of make-believe, renders John a bit unsteady on his feet as his world-view suddenly shifts. He swallows thickly, his ire softening at the slight smile on Mycroft's face when Sherlock hastily squeezes his eyes shut again.

After another moment of silent stethoscope listening from Mycroft, and not-so-silent giggling from Sherlock, Mycroft clears his throat. “Just as I thought.”

“What?” Sherlock says, whipping his eyes open again.

“I can hear all of your thoughts clattering about, banging around, smashing into walls. It's awfully noisy. No wonder your head hurts.” He sits back down, and tucks the stethoscope out of sight. “You need a Mind Attic.”

“What's that?” Sherlock pipes.

“You have an attic at Baker Street, don't you?”

Sherlock nods. “It's in my room in the ceiling. You have to pull a string, and then the stairs pop out and you can go up. John says it's really dusty up there, but that's where he put all the Christmas stuff.”

“Good. Now shut your eyes again.” Sherlock gusts out a put-upon sigh. “Don't huff at me, you churlish brat,” another giggle, “close your eyes and listen to my voice.”

Sherlock obeys, eagerly squriming where he sits until Mycroft places a gentle, but reprimanding hand on his shoulder. Sherlock stills.

“Now:” he says, voice dropping to that soothing tone again like warm, curling smoke. He moves his hand to rest on the top of Sherlock's head after hesitating only the briefest of moments. “Picture yourself going up to the attic, with your arms full of thoughts. One thought is about the most recent thing you learned about in a book, another is what you had for breakfast this morning, and the other something that's a memory. Do you have them?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, a small frown of concentration puckering his brow.

“Go up to your attic. What do you see?”

“The Christmas tree box.”

“Good. But now all of the Christmas stuff is pushed to the very back of the attic, almost to where you can't see it anymore, but you know it's there.”

“The attic is very small,” Sherlock says, brow furrowing even more.

“Not this attic. It can be as big as you need it to be,” Mycroft says. He absently brushes away Sherlock's wispy forelock with his fingers.

“Can it be a palace?” Sherlock whispers.

“Sure. So it's a palace with many rooms. A secret palace only you can get to. And each room holds different things. One room is for your Christmas decorations. There's a tree, and all the presents you got this year...”

“And John?”

“Yes, and John –- ”

“And you?”

Mycroft balks for a second, blinking a bit in surprise. “...Yes, me too.”

“Good,” Sherlock says.

“Erm. Yes. Now, you shut that door that says Christmas, and move down the corridor to the next one. What does it say?”

“It says...Library,” Sherlock says, eyes flickering under his lids.

“Very good. Do you have any thoughts in your head that should go in the library?”

“Lots and lots!” he says, beaming. “There's all the stuff I read about bees from Molly's book, and the different fishes at the aquarium, and all the planets of the super-system I learned from John!”

“Imagine that you have the books that all of these things belong in,” Mycroft says. “Hold them tight,” Sherlock brings his arms up against his chest, “and one by one, put the books on the shelves in your Library where you can find them later.” 

Sherlock nods, and pantomimes placing his imaginary books on imaginary shelves. He takes his time, eyes still closed, looking down at his hands as if actually committing the book covers to memory, and when he's done he sits quietly for several seconds. He tilts his head one way, then back the other way as if listening very intently for something. John holds his breath; he's not sure why, but the moment seems to call for it.

“My head feels…” Sherlock whispers. However, he doesn't seem to have the words, and instead bites his lip.

“Yes, I know,” Mycroft intones. He lets the back of his knuckles rest against Sherlock's cheek in the barest of caresses before letting it fall back to his side.

“How did you do that?” Sherlock says, eyes fluttering open to gaze at his brother. He looks as if he believes Mycroft could hang the very moon in the sky.

John feels an ugly little pang in his chest at the sight, and can't bare to watch anymore. As quietly as he can, he pushes himself off the counter he was resting against. His leg, the bad one, nearly buckles.

John stumbles a bit, and makes his way out into the corridor where he leans heavily against the wall. He tips his head to the side with a dull thud, shutting his gritty eyes as exhaustion suddenly swamps over him. The hospital is quiet this time of night; the air itself sterile and oppressive. John passes the time counting his breaths, and tries not to think overly much about anything with limited success.

He doesn't know how long he's been stood outside Sherlock's room when he is roused by the sound of someone curtly clearing their throat. Steeling himself, John straightens up and squares his shoulders before turning around.

Mycroft, with his armour back in place, regards John with a disdainful tick of an eyebrow. “He's asleep,” he says after a beat.

“Thank you for that. S'nice,” John says flatly, jerking his head in the direction of the room he's just come out of.

“Pardon?” Mycroft blinks.

John snorts. “You're not fooling anyone. Was that little show in there for my benefit, then?”

“I'm not sure I know what you're talking about.”

“Oh, yes. Just a perfect picture of innocence, you are.” He takes a measured step towards him. “I'd like to remind you that this is not a game; you are playing with that little boy's heart, and I'll not have you hurt him.”

Mycroft's countenance darkens, all traces of that softness gone. “It is you who is hurting him, Doctor. You and your poor judgment.”

“How dare –-” John bites, rearing up.

“I leave for one month, and when I come back I find out my brother is in hospital. Pardon me if your guardianship is called into question. Sherlock is special. He requires special care; the likes of which you are too stubborn to admit might be out of your depth.”

“We get on just perfectly. And going from what I saw in there, you well know there is nothing wrong with him medically. I'm sure you've already helped yourself to his charts,” John says. “And what about you? Where the hell have you been, anyway? You think Sherlock needs to be with someone who leaves at the drop of a hat for months at a time?”

“My job requires me --”

“Save it. I'll not have Sherlock raised by some revolving door of nannies his whole childhood. He needs stability. He needs a parent.”

“He needs someone who can provide the resources and care specific to his complexities,” Mycroft says, his vowels becoming more hard and polished the more agitated he gets. “Tell me; what will you do when he starts school? Do you really think a boy as smart as he can go just anywhere? He won't fit in with the other children, and if you disagree, you really are an ignorant fool.”

“Locking him away under private tutelage won't improve his social skills.”

“Perhaps, but what about adequate stimulation? He needs to be in an environment where he can learn at a pace that matches his intelligence. Or _this,”_ Mycroft gestures sharply to the hospital room with his chin, “will continue to happen. These symptoms are only the tip of the iceberg to a whole host of other problems that could occur. Sherlock's a prodigy: and he's only going to get smarter as time wears on. Right now his mind is like a rocket unable to launch, engines burning until it eventually tears itself apart.” John's expression must be sceptical, because Mycroft tuts. “Take it from someone who knows first hand.”

“We'll be okay,” John says imbuing the words with more confidence than he feels at the moment. He gathers up all that familiar stoicism that's served him well in the past, and squares his shoulders. “I'll figure it out.”

“Yes, but at what cost? You are an underpractised surgeon, a retired Army Captain with a scant pension, and you can barely make ends meet working at your clinic three times a week. I know what you make. Even if you pick up extra shifts, you'd have to get a second job just to manage tuition for a public school adequate enough for Sherlock's needs. Not to mention the standard expenses that come with raising a child in general. You have no assets, and very little net worth. What will you do? Sell your jumper collection?” 

Mycroft brushes an imaginary piece of lint off the cuff of his sleeve; casually, as if he didn't just get done verbally eviscerating another human being. He glances up with a somewhat bored expression. “So tell me: Doctor Watson. How present do you think you can be in Sherlock's life faced with this reality? Is he _really_ better off with you?”

John huffs a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Well, you've seemed to have it all figured out, then don't you? But before I let you cart him away, at least answer me one thing.”

“What might that be?” he says with a smug, indulgent smirk.

“What's his favourite colour?”

“I'm...sorry?” Mycroft says, blinking in confusion.

“ _Sherlock's_ favourite colour," John says, snapping his words. When nothing is forthcoming, John rounds on him again. "Or his favourite ice cream topping, for that matter?”

“I don't see how --”

“Or what toys he likes to play with in the bath, or what songs he likes to sing before bedtime, or what vegetables he refuses to eat, or how to cook his eggs so the texture doesn't put him off?”

“You've made your point. However, I think you're missing the bigger picture.”

“I'm really not,” John says. “The difference is: where you see a tiny machine you can groom and polish for your own purposes, your own future, I see a little boy. A little boy who doesn't like carrots because they're too orange, and will only fall asleep if I sing him Elanor Rigby after I've tucked him in, and won't even look at an egg unless it's scrambled. And if you can honestly look a Judge in the eye, and tell them that these things -- these basic, essential things Sherlock needs to feel safe and comfortable and loved -- aren't important, then you're the fool, Mycroft Holmes, and I feel sorry for you.”

John isn't interested in sticking around for any more of the conversation, and sidesteps Mycroft who is practically seething in his expensive, Italian loafers. If he wasn't so tired, John would savour the sucked-lemon expression on Mycroft's face, but as it is, he settles with a parting shot over his shoulder.

“And for the record: his favourite colour is purple.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. RL folx. I am uber busy with film school my dears, and I am not going to lie, I have been stuck in the most awful writers block on like everything I'm working on. So my apologies, and my sincerest thanks to all of you who are still with me. You are all gems.
> 
> xxHoney


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray! School is kicking me arse, loves. But I just want you all to know you are wonderful, and I haven't abandoned this story. Your encouragement and patience means so much. xxHoney.

John took Sherlock home the next day when it was clear there was nothing else for the doctors to check for, the tests all coming up negative for anything out of the ordinary. Even with the complete, and extended medical history provided by Mycroft, there was nothing indicating Sherlock was anything other than a healthy, if not small for his age, five-year-old.

After a night of good solid rest, Sherlock seemed a little better, and when the doctor approached him about taking him home earlier than they first thought, John was relieved. And even though the little boy was still withdrawn and pale, and much too quiet for John's liking, it was clear Sherlock was glad to be going home, too.

Now they're back at Baker Street, taking advantage of the quiet of the late morning. They are reclined on the sofa, Sherlock curled up on John's chest, drowsily playing with the stitches of John's jumper, little finger running up and down the cable-knit. If it weren't for this steady motion, John would think he'd fallen asleep. 

He seemed to be clingier than usual, keeping John in his sights at all times, and seeking out the closeness whenever he was near. John didn't mind, as he was also loath to leave him for any extended periods of time. It was hard to believe that two days ago everything was fine, John making hotcakes in the kitchen while Sherlock giggled at his failed attempt at flipping them in the air and catching them on the plate.

John brings his hand up, threading his fingers through Sherlock's soft curls. How is it that everything is suddenly so uncertain? The trial and the ensuing scare did a number on John's stalwart confidence, and now with the threat of bloody Mycroft hanging over his head – 

“You think loud,” Sherlock whispers, halting the constant loop in John's brain. His hand stops its caressing, and after a moment Sherlock butts his head into his palm.

John blinks, a small chuckle escaping as he resumes his ministrations. “I'll try to keep it down,” he says softly, registering how warm and sleepy Sherlock is becoming. Even though he slept a lot in the hospital, it was mostly due to the mild sedatives he was given to combat his anxiety, and John wants to encourage as much natural sleep as he can. “Try to get some shuteye, Bones.”

“M'not tired,” Sherlock says. It's rather unconvincing when he yawns a moment later.

“Right,” John drawls, moving to sit up.

“No!” Sherlock says, tiny arms encircling his neck, legs trying to squirrel their way around his waist. “Please! I don't want to go to my room. I'll close my eyes, promise, John.”

John sighs, trying to look somewhat stern, but then lowers himself back down, cuddling Sherlock tight. As if he could honestly reprimand him after the ordeal he's gone through the past few days.

Sherlock breathes out a little sigh, head tucking securely under John's chin where a couple of his hairs catch on the few days of growth on John's face. After a moment, Sherlock shifts his head again, listening to the scritchy-scratch of stubble before lifting up to look at John. He plants both palms on John's cheeks, investigating the bristly feeling, and John is transported back to that first morning where they had both woken up almost exactly like this on the small hide-a-bed in 221's basement flat. 

There was an utter contentment that morning, John remembers; a clarity of purpose that, suddenly, what he did mattered again. His life made a sort of sense that had been lacking, that dull aimlessness finally dissipating. He remembers feeling something for once, when all there had been was icy numbness. Sherlock brought him back into the land of the living, like the sun burning away so many days of fog, and to even try to imagine his life without him, causes John's heart to kick, and his throat to tighten.

“Love you, sunshine,” John whispers, voice hoarse, eyes stinging. Sherlock grins at him, fingers wiggling against his cheeks.

“Love you too, Papa,” Sherlock says, and stretches up to kiss John where he can reach, which happens to only be his chin. When he pulls back, he wrinkles his nose a little in a scowl. “But your face is too scratchy.”

John bursts into a laugh, more out of relief than anything — the tears threatening to spill suddenly channeled into a different, and very much welcomed, form of release. The overwhelming thoughts of the past forty-eight hours ease in a sort of catharsis with the return of this quiet domesticity, and John seizes it.

“Too scratchy?” John says, mock outraged, bouncing Sherlock a little on his chest.

“It's like a hedgehog!”

“A hedgehog?!”

“Yes!” Sherlock says, lowering his hands. John catches one of them and brings it back to his face where he then proceeds to rub his cheek against it. Sherlock squirms, giggling.

“Maybe I'll grow a beard,” John says, and Sherlock tries to pull his hand back. “Or a moustache!”

“No-o!” he says through his laughter.

“So, you're saying I need a shave?”

“Yeah!” Sherlock exclaims, placing both his little paws back on John's face. After a moment he frowns, then looks up, curiosity in his eyes. “Can you show me how?”

John grins, squeezing him before sitting them both up. “Come on, then. No time like the present.”

Fifteen minutes later finds the pair of them in the loo freshly showered, towels around their waists, with shaving foam on their cheeks. It's all very serious manly-business, and Sherlock scrutinises his foggy reflection from where he stands on a step ladder next to John.

“Now,” John says, lifting his straight razor to his face. He watches, amused, as Sherlock does the same with the dull butter knife John gave him for all intents and purposes, “the key is to go with the grain, instead of against.” He demonstrates by carefully pulling the blade in little two inch swipes down towards his jaw. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sherlock negotiate how to hold the butter knife in attempt to imitate John exactly, and he tries not to laugh. That would be very bad both for his little boy's pride, and potentially, his nose being so close to the straight razor like it is.

After swiping some shaving foam off his cheek, Sherlock copies John, and wipes off the excess on the flannel draped over the edge of the basin. He looks up with a patchy stripe on his face, beaming. “Look, John!”

“Very good, Bones,” John says.

“Hoo, hoo!” Mrs. Hudson's voice floats in from the sitting room.

“Missus Husdon! Come and see!” Sherlock chirps a second later. His delight and eagerness at showing their landlady how to shave his face is enough for John to tamp down some of his embarrassment when Mrs. Hudson rounds the corner. Some. He is, after all, in nothing but a towel.

However, their benevolent landlady doesn't even bat an eyelash. “Well what do we have here?”

“We're shaving! See?” Sherlock says, taking her hand and stroking her fingers through the stripe of skin exposed through the foam. “Smooth.”

Mrs. Hudson catches John's eye in the mirror, and they both bite back a smile. “Very dapper, young man,” she nods, serious once more. “What a handsome fellow you will be with a clean shave.”

“Mmhm!” Sherlock agrees, and diligently goes back to his task.

“John, dear. I wanted to let you know there's someone at the door to see you,” Mrs. Hudson says, her eyes pinching in that way of hers when she's fretting about something but doesn't want to let on.

John's face darkens. “Who?”

“Some woman. Very business-like. She says she's here on behalf of,” she lowers her voice, glancing at Sherlock whose bent over the basin, swirling the knife through the cloudy water, “Protective Services.”

John straightens his spine, alert. “Can you—?”

“I'll put the kettle on, dear,” Mrs. Hudson says, bustling out to make herself useful.

Sherlock looks up at him with a puzzled frown. John takes a moment to centre himself, and wipes the remnants of foam off his face. He nods once, and lifts Sherlock into his arms.

_Battle stations._

*

Catherine Lafemm sits in the leather chair across from John, sipping her tea with a leonine poise that belies her delicate exterior. Her crimson lips form a smile that would be winsome were it not for her sharp eyes, pale and cold like two chips of ice. She observes Sherlock seated on John's lap as he idly plays with his plaster skull, those intense eyes just a little too...interested for John's comfort. He shifts, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around Sherlock's waist.

“So, er,” John clears his throat in the silence, both relieved and uneasy in turns when her gaze lights on him. “Sorry, but I wasn't expecting a visit. Our social worker was only in touch a few days ago, and it's not like her not to mention something like this.”

Ms. Lafemm sets her cup and saucer down on the small side table. “That's because this visit wasn't planned, Dr. Watson. I am here following up on an official complaint made by a...concerned party.”

 _Concerned party my arse,_ John thinks, attempting to tamp down his festering anger when the pieces fall into place. Damn bloody Mycroft Holmes.

“Isn't it a conflict of interest and a waste of resources to follow up on a maligned _complaint_ made by the opposing party in the midst of a custody battle?” John says with polite, belittling logic.

Ms. Lafemm simply smiles a disarming smile that doesn't fool John for a second. “You believe this complaint about the child's welfare is unfounded,” she says. It's not a question.

“I know it's unfounded. And so do you if you bothered to pay attention while you were poking around,” John says unable to prevent some of his ire from spilling over. She raises a cool eyebrow at this.

“Careful, Doctor. I would hate to put down that you were obstinate and uncooperative in my report.”

“What you call obstinate, I call protective,” John volleys. “I know you are just doing your job, but no matter how diplomatically you phrase it, someone is actively threatening me and my child.” 

She levels a snapping glare at him, cold and bright like a glacier, and for a second John is alarmed at its fierceness. Before he can dwell on it however, the dangerous look in her eye melts away so fast John wonders if it was merely a trick of the light. After a beat, she inclines her head and gives a placid, little half-smirk.

She smooths an invisible crease in her impeccable white skirt, and turns her attention back to Sherlock for a moment. “Regardless. I mean to conduct a thorough investigation.”

“Well, can you at least tell me who complained?”

“Afraid not.”

“Of course you can't,” John grumbles. He runs his fingers through Sherlock's curls in a nervous habit borne from his agitation, and ponders just how bad the backlash would be if he were to forcibly eject this condescending 'liaison' from protective services out onto the street.

Ms. Lafemm gives John another sharp smile as if she knows exactly what he is thinking, her gaze once more filled with scalding ice. 

“Sherlock,” she says after an uncomfortable pause. Sherlock looks up at her warily through his fringe. “Would it be all right if we talk? Maybe you can show me your room, and some of your toys. Does that sound okay?”

Sherlock turns to John, his little brow puckered with uncertainty. “It's all right. I'll be right down here the whole time if you need anything,” John assures him, and helps him slide off his lap.

Blushing shyly and clutching his skull to his chest, Sherlock approaches Ms. Lafemm on meek stocking feet.

John watches with a careful eye and proverbial teeth bared as Ms. Lafemm gently takes hold of one of Sherlock's hands.

“Hello, Sherlock,” she says, the sharpness of her person softening along with her voice.

“H'lo,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Who's your...friend?”

Sherlock clutches the skull tighter. “This is John.”

Ms. Lafemm darts John a mildly alarmed glance, and John feels a flicker of anxiety for what this might look like written down on paper. _Little boy, possibly disturbed, talks to skulls named after foster-father._ John swallows around the sudden dryness in his throat, but maintains his nonchalant air as if, naturally, a plaster skull is the perfect choice for a child's teddy. Not dubious at all, no sir.

“Do you like living here?” Ms. Lafemm moves on, swinging Sherlock's arm a little. Sherlock blushes even more, and nods his head. “What's your favourite thing about living here?”

“John.”

“Your…?”

Sherlock shakes his head setting the skull down on the table next to Ms. Lafemm's tea cup. “No. _John_ John. My papa,” he clarifies with a bright smile. John can't suppress the small grin that escapes. A tension he'd been holding releases, his shoulders relaxing from their battle-ready tautness, and he eases back in his chair.

“You like your John?” Lafemm says, her voice low and almost...sad.

“Very much. He's a doctor, and he saved me from a bad man, and Harry and Miss Clara say even though he doesn't have much, he has a lot to give, and surely the karts will see that. Are you from the karts?”

“The _courts?”_ Lafemm says, smiling. She looks up at John, and John feels his face flush before he looks away. Trust his sister to talk about things in front of Sherlock, the amazing regurgitating sponge. God forbid he comes off as having coached Sherlock in some way. Lafemm doesn't look suspicious though. More thoughtful than anything, and John can't tell if that's a good or bad thing. “I am, sort of,” she says, drawing Sherlock a little closer.

“Oh.”

Ms. Lafemm tucks a wayward curl behind his ear. “Why don't you show me where you sleep. A big boy like you must have a wonderful room full of all sorts of wonderful things.”

Sherlock gives her a sunny smile in agreement, and tugs at her hand, leading the way towards the stairs.

John refrains from following them, and for the next fifteen or so minutes, attacks the dishes in the sink.

While it is true that his attorney, Clara, was building a solid case of guardianship for him, John knows that one dubious report or concern about Sherlock's well-being could topple the rather delicate house of cards they were playing with. It's why John has been working so hard to get his life in order so that in the event something like this does come up, he's kept his nose clean to the point no judge could find fault with him.

He knows he's crossed every _t_ and dotted each _i,_ however, it doesn't ease his worry over what Ms. Lafemm's report will reflect. He nearly breaks a plate in half from his anger at Mycroft Holmes in that moment. Damn him and his constant meddling.

Before John can take he temper out on the innocent crockery, a pair of footsteps bounding gaily down the steps alerts John of Sherlock's presence moments before he comes careening around the corner.

“John!” he exclaims, crashing into John's knees.

“Hey there, bug! Have a nice chat with the nice lady?” he asks, swinging Sherlock up to perch on his hip. Said 'nice lady' enters the kitchen a minute later with her legal pad in hand, and curiously, Sherlock's ever present bumblebee tucked under an elbow. Her red lips bloom like a rose when she smiles at him, and John is taken aback at how much it seems to thaw her icy exterior.

Sherlock ducks his head, cheeks going a little rosy in his shyness. John tries to catch his eye, intensely curious about what went on up there, but Sherlock only grins a little, and wraps his arms around John's neck.

“I think I have all I need,” Ms. Lafemm says, tucking her papers into the slim briefcase she brought with her. She looks down at the bumblebee in her hands for a moment before handing it off to its rightful owner.

“Oh, er. Let me walk you out,” John says as Sherlock hugs the bee to his chest.

She smiles holding up a hand. “That's quite all right. I will see myself out. Nice to have met you Dr. Watson; Sherlock.”

“Wish I could say the same but, you know,” John says flatly, hitching Sherlock higher. In the intervening months, Sherlock has finally managed to put on a little weight, slowly but surely catching up to his percentile. It is encouraging, however, not so much for John's shoulder.

“Indeed,” she says, lips pursing as she looks at Sherlock with those luminous eyes. John clears his throat and she shifts her gaze. “You'll be hearing from me...one way or another.”

She pulls on her pristine white trench coat, and without another word finds her way down the stairs. John doesn't relax until he hears the street door close, however.

“Now then,” he says, turning to Sherlock. “How about some lunch?”

* * *

Not far from Baker Street, a nondescript black car with fake number plates pulls up behind a narrow alley.

A woman shakes out her dark hair from its tight chignon, turns her white coat inside out, and tosses a plain camera phone into a skip.

The car door opens, and she slips inside.

“You were right,” she tells her companion with a wicked smirk. “He thinks it was Mycroft.”

Her eyes sparkle, and the two of them share in a laugh as the car drives away.

The camera phone buzzes weakly at the bottom of the skip, moisture from the rain and an upended can of cola causing a short in the battery.

A text message appears on the screen before it fades to black...

_Number Blocked – 11:46 AM_  
_I know what you took. And when I find you I will skin you and make you into shoes._  
_M_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hyperventilating* whaaaaaaaaa?  
> yeah.  
> idk.  
> Sorry it's a short chapter, but tis an important one. We are slowly but surely entering the final stages of this story. I can't give you an estimate on chapters, but I do have this all planned out. Oh man. So exciting. xD Hope you all liked it.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY SHERLOCK DAY!
> 
> My gentle, lovely, amazing readers. So many things! First: I have finally graduated college and am done with the time-sucking thing that is school! So THAT means I can return to our semi-regular programming. Second: Thank you all so, so much for your amazing patience and encouragement and support. I have always read about fanfic authors getting burned by their readers on occasion for lengthy updates, and I am pleased to say I have never been chastened by any of you guys. I cherish each and every one of you, and your incredible ability to put up with my absences. SO, I have had this update planned for this very special day. No matter how s4 turns out, I hope this can be a boon to you all. Let's get through this together.
> 
> Now, without further ado...chapter 22!
> 
> xxHoney

_“Remember the game we used to play, Sherlock?” she said, clasping his hands as she knelt in front of him. He nodded, a little uncertain. “Good. Now I need you to listen to me very carefully.”_

_Sherlock glanced to his bedroom door then back to her violet eyes._

_“I'm listening.”_

* * *

Sherlock sits on Missus Hudson's sofa, nervously kicking his feet so the heels of his trainers thunk against the bottom. He’s trying to play Sudoku on his phone while Mrs. Hudson finishes preparing her roast, occupying himself until they can watch a movie like they always do when John is away. However, his mind is all over the place.

He looks up at her bird clock, the little hand almost on the Canadian Goose which Sherlock knows means the number five. He bites his lip a little, his forehead creasing as he wills the ticking second hand to slow.

Missus Hudson’s phone rings, and Sherlock can’t help but jump a little.

“Hello? Oh, _hello,_ Marie darling!… No, not busy at all, just peeling the last of these potatoes...I’ve got Sherlock over… I said, I’ve got SHERLOCK over...”

Sherlock frowns, worry and frustration gnawing at his insides in equal measure. Missus Hudson was talking to Missus Turner, and that would probably take at least an extra couple twenty minutes because John always said they like to godsip and that always led to the tea growing cold and something about cows coming home. 

What ever the case. Sherlock didn’t have time for the cows or for Missus Hudson’s talk, talk, _talking…_

* * *

_“You need to go to Regent’s Park. Wednesday when your John is away,” she said, and lightly stroked his cheek. “Your little friend will be there at half six, and it’s dangerous for him to wait.”_

_Sherlock tried not to move away from her cold fingers even though he really wanted to, his heart hammering inside his rib cage._

_“B-but —”_

_“You want to stay here, don’t you, Sherlock? You want to stay here with John?” Her voice took on a sing-song quality that made him recoil regardless._

_“Yes.”_

_“Then you need to do as I say.”_

_“Okay. I will.”_

_“Clever boy.”_

* * *

Sherlock takes a breath, and slides off the sofa.

He heads for the kitchen, stopping just before his toes touch the divide of tile and carpet. Missus Hudson has managed to wrap herself up with the telly cord, seemingly unaware as she flutters from stove to worktop. She doesn’t even notice him, and Sherlock can tell she’s not getting off the phone any time soon.

Quietly, he pads into the kitchen, sidling up to her and clutching at her skirts.

“Nonsense!…Of course he would say that, wouldn’t he — not now, Sherlock, dear, Nana’s on the phone — well with his wife off in Cornwall, I shouldn’t wonder!”

Sherlock sighs as she gently shakes her apron out of his fist, and waves him vaguely back towards the sitting room. He chews on his lower lip, and glances up at another of her clocks, this one with different flowers shaped like the numbers, and his tummy gives a little lurch.

He walks around the small kitchen island behind Missus Hudson, and inches closer to the cooktop where a pot is left bubbling with fragrant broth.

Missus Hudson laughs at something Missus Turner said on the other end, and Sherlock eyes the glowing red coil of the burner…

* * *

_He reluctantly handed over his stuffed bee, his heart twisting in his chest. He watched as The Woman — for that’s all Sherlock has ever known her by — lifted one of the soft felt wings and dug at the seam with her sharp, painted fingernail. He cringed when a popping, tearing sound could be heard, and sniffed back the tears threatening at the surface._

_She stopped, and glanced at him reprovingly. He looked down at his blue quilt, avoiding her eyes, and crossed his feet at the ankles so he wouldn’t be tempted to kick her just so she would stop hurting Geoffrey._

_“You will take this with you when you go, all right?” she said, and he nodded his understanding, still not willing to meet her gaze. “Good boy. Now go down stairs.”_

_He slid off the edge of his bed, eager to leave the room._

_Her hand, claw-like and still oh so cold, wrapped around his wrist._

_“And remember the rules, Sherlock. No telling.”_

_“No telling,” he repeated._

_She smiled at him, and the bright, bitter shine to her eye softened somewhat. With her other hand she gently stroked his cheek one last time._

* * *

Sherlock hiccups a sob as Missus Hudson guides his fingers under the cool stream of water.

“Oh, Sherlock,” she tuts, peering into his face as he sits on the counter next to the kitchen sink. She inspects the bright red marks on his skin, prodding at the blisters already forming with gentle touches. It hurts, and Sherlock can’t help but sob even harder. “Shh, shh, dearheart,” she coos, returning his poor digits to the tap, “I know it hurts, but what ever were you thinking, messing about near the stove?”

“I just w-wanted my ju-juice!” he says, mournfully. It’s a lie, but Sherlock couldn’t think of anything else to do, and practically everything he tries might be considered telling and that was against The Rules. But oh, did it _hurt._

She tuts again and wraps an arm around him, hugging him tight. Sherlock can tell that she feels bad about him touching the stove, that she blames herself, and he hates that he made her feel that way when it wasn’t her fault at all, and now he’s even lying to her, and if she knew how horrible he was being —

“M’sorry Missus H-Husdon. I’m bad,” he says into her sweet-smelling cardigan.

“Oh, Sherlock, no. It was an accident, and I should have been paying attention, you poor lamb. Here, I’ll fix you right up, and then I think we need to have a warm milky and a nice lie-down, hm?” she says, her tone still filled with regret, and that just makes Sherlock feel even worser.

He lets Missus Hudson daub a sticky ointment on his smarting fingers, and then wrap them snugly in a gauzy bandage almost like a mitten. His fingers feel a little better, but he still feels awful about the whole thing. Almost like he never really left Mister Hope’s and all of the bad things, the _terrible_ things that he helped cause were happening all over again.

But, that’s not what was going to happen this time. The Woman promised. She said that this would be the last time they play their game, and this time was the most important because his Father didn’t know about it.

And hopefully, if everything goes right, _he_ would never be his Father again.

Sherlock shudders out a sigh, and curls into Missus Hudson as she lifts him into her arms.

“There’s my good boy,” she whispers, and carries him to the sofa. She sets him down on the lumpy, but comfortable cushions, and tucks the lavender scented afghan around him. She floats back into the kitchen, and Sherlock can hear her setting the microwave to heat a little of the sweet tea he likes. She always makes it best with extra honey and a little cream instead of just milk. He smiles sadly, and cuddles Geoffrey to him, wanting to bury his face in the soft fur and never come out because he doesn’t deserve to have a nice tea, and a nice blanket, and hugs and kisses for being so rotten.

Missus Hudson doesn’t seem to notice however, and after the microwave dings, she brings him his milky tea with a soft smile and a kiss on his forehead.

He takes a few sips and hands it back to her while he sinks down further into the cushions, his bumblebee still pressed tightly to his chest. He closes his eyes and tries to slow down his tense breathing as the ticking bird clock drums on like a tiny hammer to his sensitive ears. It’s almost a relief when Missus Hudson puts on one of her scratchy records even though it doesn’t quite drown out the sound of time moving steadily on.

He knows better than to fall asleep though he’s starting to get drowsy. However, between the butterflies in his tummy and the throbbing in his hand, he doesn’t think he could drop off anyways. Instead, he falls into a somewhat meditative state, laying there on the sofa, feeling his heart beat one-two, one-two.

Somewhere between counting his breaths, and listening to the record play it self out, the clicking of Missus Hudson’s knitting needles has ceased, and it’s this absence that has Sherlock coming back to himself. He cracks open an eye.

Just like always, Missus Hudson had fallen asleep herself, her latest project — a tiny jumper for her sister’s Yorkie — abandoned in her lap, her chin drooping towards her chest.

This is what Sherlock was hoping for. She was like clockwork, Missus Hudson. Every Wednesday when they would curl up and watch movies before John came home, she would _always_ nod off. Ex-pecially after her special tea, and Missus Hudson was already on her second cup which is currently cooling on the table beside her.

Sherlock sits all the way up, and moves the blanket off of his lap. He quietly drops down to the floor, hoping his trainers don’t creak like they were wont to do. He grips Geoffrey tight in his good fist, and tip-toes across the sitting room.

He lingers on the kitchen threshold once more, glancing at Missus Hudson before walking across the tiles to the back door. With a heavy sigh, he looks back over his shoulder to the flowery clock-face: 

_6:07 PM_

He closes the door behind him with some difficulty, his bandaged fingers making it awkward to grip the handle, and continues out into the alley behind Speedy’s.

A breeze ruffles his hair, and even though it’s finally March, there’s still a damp chill in the air that makes him shudder hard. He nestles Geoffrey under his long-sleeve shirt, and crosses his arms over his chest before heading in the direction of the park.

He wends in and out of alleys, past the statue of the man in the funny hat, avoiding as many street cameras as he can based on The Woman’s instructions. A few people give him odd looks, but he doesn’t linger in case they try to stop him and ask him questions.

The sunlight is rapidly disappearing, and with it, the little warmth of the remaining day. Sherlock’s teeth begin to chatter as he passes Madame Tussaud's, and he tells himself it’s the cold and not the creepy wax people he knows are lurking behind the advertisement-plastered windows.

Through a few more back streets, and across another zebra crossing, the park finally comes into view.

He makes a bee-line to the duck pond and stands near a large tree, hoping he’s not very noticeable to the few people milling about. He knows he probably looks strange by himself, ex-pecially because he is so short and people always mistake him for being younger than he really is. 

A couple holding hands stop and stare at him curiously, making like they want to approach him. He nearly panics, and stoops to pick up a hand full of rocks, tossing them one by one into the water as if he always does this at the park. After a moment, they continue on their way, the woman with long dark hair and a kind face, smiling at him as they pass. Sherlock smiles back, but it slips off his face the moment they round the bend in the walking path. He lets the rest of the stones fall into the water, almost grimacing at his own reflection. The pit of his stomach aches, and he tires to take his mind off it by watching a few mallards wade across the still surface. It’s not his favourite duck pond, the one at Hyde Park being bigger and with more ducks, but it’s nice all the same and he wishes he would have thought to put a few of Missus Hudson’s short bread biscuits in his pockets before he left. It at least would have been something to pass the time.

More than a little anxious, Sherlock sits down on a flat rock, and tucks his knees to his chest and waits. The sun continues to ebb away bit by bit, and the park slowly becomes deserted.

“Shezza?” a familiar voice calls out, and Sherlock swivels his head around. He peers through the gloom of trees and scrub behind him.

A pale faces appears in the shadows, and Sherlock scrambles to his feet, brushing the twigs and dirt off his clothes. “Wiggy? Is that you?”

“Indeed, Shez. How you been, you wee bugger?” he says, emerging from his hiding place and ruffling Sherlock’s hair. He smiles, but there are tense lines around his mouth, and Sherlock notices a dark bruise along one cheek that looks quite painful.

“What happened?” he asks meekly.

“Nuffink for you to worry about, never you mind.” He gives Sherlock a keen once-over, his hand coming to squeeze his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re ‘ere,” he says after a beat, his throat visibly working around a hard swallow. Sherlock begins to read all of the Stories about him, all of them grim. His cheeks are hollow, his face appearing more sharp because of it, and his hands shake where they grip him. But it’s his eyes that worry Sherlock. They keep darting around, looking for something or someone, and it dawns on him that Wiggy is frightened. Wiggy was _never_ scared of anything.

“Are-are you —?” Wiggy cuts him off with a shake of his head, and tugs him under the canopy of newly-budding trees away from any passersby. “I have something for you,” Sherlock insists, clutching at his friend’s sleeve, hoping this small thing will chase the shadows out of his friend’s eyes. Wiggy grins a little.

“Mhm. I know you do. And I betch you was very brave in getting it to me, too,” he replies, leading Sherlock around to a path that meanders to a different part of the park. He chivvies Sherlock down a set of stone steps where there’s a nice secluded spot probably for bird watching, the tunnel of a foot bridge nearby. It’s by this tunnel where Wiggy finally comes to a stop.

He licks his lips, looking down at Sherlock. “What all did she tell you, Shez?”

Sherlock bites his lip, looking down at his toy still tucked in his shirt. Instead of answering, he pulls out Geoffrey and hands him to Wiggy with no small amount of apprehension.

Wiggy takes the toy, and immediately lifts the floppy wing, seeking the hidden seam with ease. With his first two fingers shaped like a pincer, he pulls out a slim, black device in a plastic casing. The tension in his face and around his eyes slackens, and he takes a relieved breath.

“What is it?” Sherlock asks because even though he is worried and kind of afraid, he’s still very curious.

“This right ‘ere, is the answer to a lot of people’s problems,” Wiggy murmurs, his eyes never leaving the little stick. Sherlock recognises it now: it’s something that goes in a computer.

A sharp sound ricochets from the other end of the tunnel making both of them jump. Wiggy grabs onto Sherlock’s arm, his eyes saucer-like and frozen as he stares down the narrow darkness. Sherlock can feel the anticipation rolling off his friend in waves, and Sherlock, too, fixes his gaze to the end of the tunnel, waiting for something to happen, for some boogeyman to breach the entrance and give chase.

Instead, at the mouth of the tunnel a magpie flaps it’s wings with an irritated caw, making Sherlock jump again, and Wiggy huff out a laugh.

“Oh go on, you miserable blighter!” Wiggy says through his giggles. Sherlock grins in relief too, as Wiggy puts a hand over his chest. “Nearly gave me ‘art attack. Now, c’mon. It’s getting late and I better be getting you home.” Sherlock nods, and takes Wiggy’s hand. He looks down at Sherlock with a thoughtful expression, an idea lighting in his eyes. “You got pockets, Shezza?”

***

Wiggy takes them the long way back in the direction of Baker Street, hopping from darkened backstreet, to dimly-lit street corner until Sherlock hardly knows which direction is which. His good hand is firmly clasped in his, and at times it almost feels like his arm is being pulled out of its socket by how quickly Wiggy is dragging them along. His legs ache for all the trotting he’s doing just to keep up.

“Just a few more streets, Shez, I promise,” Wiggy says, head on a constant swivel as they hurry out of a quiet neighbourhood and up a main road Sherlock finally recognises. He doesn’t say anything, concentrating on using his breath for putting one foot in front of the other.

The sun has finally made its way behind the multitudes of London’s buildings, and even though it’s not quite fully set, the street lights are beginning to flicker on. A chilly fog has also rolled in from the Thames, making the air smell heavy and moist, and the trees, although beginning to sprout some cheerful green in the daylight, still look skeletal and bare in the gloom.

The sound of tyres on asphalt screeches its way from somewhere close, and suddenly Wiggy jolts to a stop. Sherlock runs into the backs of his knees, and before he has a chance to peer around him, Wiggy has them sprinting to a damp alley behind a shop. He presses them into the rough bricks at their back, one of his arms bracing Sherlock as he looks around the corner.

Sherlock holds his breath. A cat yowls from somewhere, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and chills race down his spine. There is a beat, then two, and for a moment, Sherlock thinks the danger has passed. Then there is an angry shout, and Wiggy has them backing up into the alley even more, and Sherlock really hopes the shadows hide them as the sound of a car door and clipped footsteps reaches them from the road. Wiggy tugs him around a large metal skip, forcing them both into a crouch.

“I don’t fink they saw you,” he whispers earnestly. “I’m going to try and lead ‘em away before I give ‘em the slip, then I’ll come back ‘ere for you. Stay down, Sherlock. And no matter what, don’t move ‘til I get back.” He goes to get up before Sherlock grabs onto his wrist.

“What if —?”

“If I don’t come back, you best remember what I told you, yeah?” he says, eyes growing wide and intense when he hears the footsteps hasten their approach. Sherlock nods, swallowing hard, and lets Wiggy manouvre him until he’s laying on his front. The skip sheltering him is on wheels, leaving about a five-inch gap from the ground that he can see through, and when Wiggy tugs a mouldy cardboard box over the top of him, the gap becomes the only way he can tell what’s going on. After a moment Wiggy’s trainers come into view, before he takes off in the opposite direction from the street, not caring to keep quiet as he scales what sounds like a chain-link fence.

Sherlock clamps his hands over his mouth when two sets of black boots jog past his hiding spot. One of them mutters a mean word ― a word John always says is bad ― his voice deep and gruff. Another voice, raspy and high-pitched, barks a command in another language before the rattle of the chain-link can be heard again. Only one pair of boots, the larger pair, runs back to the mouth of the alley, the clodding footfalls retreating in the distance.

It’s quiet again, and Sherlock strains his ears for any little sound, hardly daring to breathe any louder than the shallow breaths he releases through his fingers.

A loud set of bangs, one right after the other, causes Sherlock to start violently. The makeshift roof nearly slides off in the process, but Sherlock doesn’t notice, the rapid pounding of his heart drowning out his hearing. He knows that sound. Has heard it many times. It’s a gun shot sound, and all Sherlock can think about is his friend out there in the dark, hot tears springing to his eyes.

It is quiet for a little while longer, and Sherlock is on the verge of crawling out of his makeshift hideout, for lack of anything better to do when the sound of a tussle, and another pair of shoes burst into Sherlock’s view. One of them is Wiggy’s dingy trainers, but the other pair — brown, leather, what John calls _sensible_ — is new. Sherlock freezes, curling even tighter into himself, waiting for some sign. 

“Th-this is it, I swear,” Wiggy rasps, and the other person shoves him away, making him stumble and fall to his hands and knees in front of the skip. Sherlock’s eyes grow wide when he sees his friend’s clothes spattered with drops of red, red blood. “P-please. It’s here. Please.”

There is a pause, and then Sherlock’s world narrows down to two words:

“Show me.”

Sherlock knows that curdled voice with its cigar-stale breath and yellowed teeth. That voice that spat lies at him, and screamed insults in an alcohol induced rage. It’s the voice that shapes a good deal of his nightmares, and also of his inner-most insecurities and self doubts. 

It is the voice of Mister Hope.

For a moment Wiggy stays on his hands and knees, nothing but his shaky breathing tattering in the deserted alley. Then one of those brown leather-clad feet jerks up, delivering a swift kick to Wiggy’s ribs. 

Wiggy yelps, falling sideways and clutching his middle as he gasps brokenly for air. He turns his head and his watery brown eyes lock with Sherlock’s. There is pain and so much fear, and Sherlock would have looked away if it wasn’t for the last thing: the fierce determination sparking from within and tightening his friend’s jaw with resolve. 

He nods at Sherlock, minutely but almost triumphantly, and Sherlock nods back, the tears finally falling from his eyes. He knows this might be the last time he will ever see him, and the thought makes his entire chest ache.

So, it is with a keen sense of loss that Sherlock quietly pushes his stuffed bee towards Wiggy, making sure to get it as close to him under the skip as his arm can reach.

Wiggy gives another imperceptible nod, and covers it by making a show of rising back to his knees.

“'Ere. It’s here. I...I hid it...” he says, painfully reaching under the skip for the toy. With one last look at Sherlock, he withdraws, and pulls himself back to standing.

There is a tense silence wherein all Sherlock hears is Wiggy’s harsh breathing. And then:

“I know this. The boy. Where is he?”

Sherlock’s heart jackknifes to his throat, but Wiggy remains stubbornly silent.

“Fine. You’re coming with me,” Hope says, anger lancing his words, followed by the distinctive _click_ of a gun. “Let’s go.”

Sherlock muffles a sob when both pairs of shoes leave his vision, the sound of their footsteps melting away in the night.

He shivers, cold and alone, and aching deep inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to anyone who knows what funny statue Sherlock passes by near Madame Tussaud's. ;)


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Here's the next chapter! I am also slowly but surely getting back to some of you who have left comments. You all are so amazing, and I constantly can't believe how many people tell me they appreciate this story. It's been three years since I started this, and a great deal of you have stuck with me the whole time, and I seriously don't even have words. Like ??? this fic broke 1000 kudos, and I just...I love you all xxHoney

John sits on Mrs. Hudson’s sofa, the feeling of impotent helplessness numbing his chest outwards until his finger-tips are buzzing with it. His heart thuds, oddly, painfully, and the pattern of the rug under his shoes blurs. It isn’t until Mrs. Hudson forces a cup of tea in his hands, her soft thumb caressing his cheek, that he realises it’s from the moisture gathering in his eyes. He takes a moment to compose himself, before rallying his wits and dragging himself back to the present.

“And you say he wasn’t upset at all earlier? Frightened? Angry?” Lestrade is asking, a notebook held at the ready.

“No, heavens no,” Mrs. Hudson says. “Everything was normal. Completely normal.”

“What about you John? Have you noticed any odd behaviour from Sherlock? Anything that might indicate…?”

“No,” John says, the word cracking out of his dry throat. He takes a quick sip of tea. “I know what you’re thinking, Greg. But Sherlock’s not a run-away. He wouldn’t do that, and even if he wanted to, there is no way he wouldn’t have taken anything with him. He’s the most logical little five-year-old in existence, and he left everything of relevance behind. No, something is wrong.”

“Yeah, I understand, John, but there is no evidence of any foul play. No busted door locks, nothing suspicious on the CCTV out front.”

John sighs, frustrated. Now they were just going in circles. “You’ve said, and yet I’m not sure what you are doing to help me _find my child.”_ The words come out harsh and angry, and John clenches his jaw and looks down. Greg is here as a favour, even though missing persons isn’t his division. He kneads his forehead. “Sorry.”

“John. Whether or not Sherlock is a run-away, or whether he was coerced, or what, I can personally promise you I’ve got my best units out combing the streets for Sherlock.”

“As do I, Detective Inspector,” comes another voice from Mrs. Hudson’s foyer. John looks over his shoulder, briefly nodding at Mycroft Holmes as he makes his way into the small sitting room. 

As much as Holmes’s interference is abhorrent, John conceded almost immediately the need to involve Sherlock’s brother after receiving Mrs. Hudson’s heart stopping call. The man had already proven he had access to resources John did not, and although they weren’t each other’s favourite people, they both embargoed their feud the moment John said, _“Sherlock.”_

“A right cavalry then,” Lestrade says with a tired smirk. He flips his notebook closed, and rises to his feet. John does likewise, gripping his hand.

“Thanks again, Greg.”

“I’ll keep you posted, John.” He nods politely: “Mr. Holmes. Ma’am,” and makes for the door.

“Oh,” Mrs. Hudson sighs, adjusting a throw pillow then smoothing down her skirt as if she didn’t know quite what to do with her hands. “John, I can’t help but feel responsible for all of this,” she says, her eyes shimmering with tears.

“No, no Mrs. H,” John says immediately pulling her into a hug. “None of this is your fault. You’re a saint, you know that right?”

“But if I hadn’t —”

“Mrs. Hudson, if I may,” Mycroft says, rocking up slightly on the balls of his feet. “If my baby brother is anything like a Holmes, he is precocious at best, and insatiably curious at worst. The fact you manage him at all is an impressive feat,” Mycroft says, a sympathetic tone colouring his words. Or what passes for sympathy, at least. John tries and fails not to be surprised at this show of decency. “To fret is pointless. If he really wanted to leave, he would have done so regardless.”

“So you think he ran away, too?” John says, surprise vanishing to be replaced with a touch of anger.

Mycroft Holmes regards him, a peculiar look in his eye. “No. However, I don’t think he left voluntarily, Dr. Watson.”

John hears the measured way he says this, and he tilts his head. Mycroft’s nod is imperceptible, and his eyes flash upwards. His mobile chimes, and with one last loaded look at John, he reaches into his pocket.

“I just hate the thought of him out there all alone like that,” Mrs. Hudson is saying as John continues to scrutinise the elder Holmes. “It’s dark, and he doesn’t even have his jacket. Shall I put on some more tea?”

“No, thank you Mrs. Hudson. Although, John, might I request the use of your personal laptop?” he says swiftly, his eyes flashing up from the screen of his device.

Before John can either acquiesce or interrogate, Mycroft turns sharply on his heel and strides out of Mrs. Hudson’s flat.

“I better...” John says, hovering between following and wanted to stay for his landlady’s sake.

“I expect you should,” she says, making the decision for him, a slightly baffled frown on her face.

“Ta,” he says, kissing her on the cheek.

“For what it’s worth, John. I am sorry,” she says, squeezing his hand before he pulls away.

“It’s okay. It’ll all be okay,” he replies, uncertain of who is is trying to reassure at the moment.

He takes the stairs two at a time, wholly unsurprised when he sees the man at the small desk already navigating his computer as if he belonged there.

“That _was_ password protected,” John says, ruffled.

Mycroft shoots him an _‘oh please, don’t be obtuse’_ sort of look, and resumes his furious typing. 

John edges more fully into the flat, suddenly feeling uncomfortable, as if he were the stranger in his own home. He chalks it up to the ineptitude he’s been feeling, and attempts to beat the hopelessness back with a metaphorical stick seeing as how he can’t beat anything with a literal one. The fact that Sherlock is probably scared and hurting somewhere alone in the dark is enough to cause the rage to boil up to the surface. Every time it does, however, it is suddenly smothered in a thick blanket of failure, reminding him that he should have been there — he should have been there for crissake — and it’s this cycle that has him nearly wrung way past his limit.

He marches over and slams the laptop lid shut.

Mycroft protests in indignation, but before he can say anything to that effect, John cuts him off.

“Listen. I absolutely cannot — can _not_ — handle any secret cloak-and-dagger _bullshit_ right now, do you understand?” he says, voice low, flat, and all the more deadly for it.

Tension crackles between them in a silence so strong John reckons he can actually hear Mycroft’s stupid eyebrow arch upwards. After a beat, one of the hands hovering frozen over the closed laptop, rises and turns, palm up and beckoning.

“Sherlock’s phone. I’m assuming you have it?” he implores.

John knows asking what he’s on about is useless, and figures things will go faster if he just goes along with the enigmatic bastard. He pulls Sherlock’s mobile from his jeans’ pocket, having placed it in there earlier when he found it abandoned on Mrs. Hudson’s sofa. He hands it over, and takes a seat on the squat coffee table.

Mycroft wastes no time. He pries apart the green plastic case, and takes off the backing, popping the battery out with his thumbnail. John looks on as he then snaps some type of electronic chip out of the inner workings of the phone — a small thing no bigger than John’s thumbnail — and with a click, he plugs it into the black chip reader John hadn’t seen earlier. Recognition sparks.

“You _bugged_ Sherlock’s mobile?”

“Of course I did,” he says, plugging the reader into John’s laptop, and opens the lid. “It also has a GPS tracker, not like that does us much good at the moment,” he grumbles.

Irritation prickles under his skin, but John lets it go once a sudden cache of audio files populates the small window on the screen. There are hundreds of them, and Mycroft swiftly navigates to the bottom, skimming through some of the most recent dates.

“There has to be something that spooked him recently, something that would cause him to deviate so sharply from the norm. Coercion of some sort, wouldn’t you agree, Dr. Watson?”

John nods, scowling at the computer, worry eating at his insides. “This is not like him.”

Mycroft turns in the chair a little, regarding John with that intense hawk-like stare. “Was there _any_ indication? Any at all, no matter how slight?”

John, hackles raised, immediately wants to say no already having gone over this with Lestrade, but before he can rail against the implications of his failure — of his ineptitude — he pauses. There is no judgment in Mycroft’s eyes, just a simple need for data. He blows out a breath, and thinks back.

Had Sherlock seemed odd? Not really apart from —

“Well, ever since last week he’s been pretty quiet. Not more so than usual, just...thoughtful. Wants to stay by my side a lot.”

He turns back to the computer, scrolling through dates. “What happened last week? Did he go anywhere? Talk to anyone in particular?”

“You mean you don’t know? What with your trackers and surveillance, and whatnot.” John says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Dr. Watson, please cease with the snide remarks. Sherlock has already been gone long enough,” Mycroft says, darting him a look as he continues to scroll.

“It was a _normal_ week,” John insists. “Same routine, same —” he pauses here, the anger renewing itself when he remembers. “Except for that woman that came by here, poking her nose in. Thanks for that, by the way.”

Mycroft stills, hands frozen over the keyboard. That sharp, honed look is back, as he narrows a glare at him. “What do you mean?”

“You know. That woman you sent over from _Protective Services,”_ John nearly spits.

“Dr. Watson...I didn’t send anyone from Protective Services.”

“Of course you did, you — didn’t you?” Mycroft remains staring at him, his mouth a tight, grim line, and John feels the blood drain from his face inch by inch. She never said. She told him she couldn’t reveal who made the inquiry, or some such rot, and he had assumed — “Oh my god...” he says, burying his face in his hands. He can feel them shaking as his calm slowly unmoors itself. _Who was here? Who was in his house? Who was Sherlock talking to? Who was **in his home?**_

 _“John,”_ Mycroft says sharply, snapping him out of the swirling panic threatening to swamp him. “I need you to focus. What was her name and when _exactly_ was she here?”

“Er, she — h-her name was Lefemme,” he says, the heel of his hand pressed into his forehead. “Catherine Lefemme. And it was last Tuesday, the day Sherlock came home from hospital. A-about noon.”

Mycroft makes an enlightened noise, and clicks rapidly on the trackpad. Through John’s tinny laptop speakers, a voice crackles through, low, and feminine, and chilled like ice.

_“You want to stay here, don’t you, Sherlock? You want to stay here with John?”_

There is a moment where it’s quiet, the ambient noise of the room hissing like the embodiment of something sick and deadly. Then, wavering high and sweet is Sherlock’s voice — _scared so scared_ — and John listens horrified as she threatens him with her cold words.

 _“I like him very much,”_ the viper croons. _“What is his name?”_

_“Geoffrey.”_

_“He’s going to help us. Give him here.”_

_“But —”_

In agitation, John gets to his feet and begins to pace.

_“Sherlock. Don’t test me.”_

A sob. _“Isn’t — can’t you —?”_

_“Shh, shh. None of that now. You don’t want your John to wonder why you’ve been crying. That would be against the rules. Now, settle down, and give. him. to. me.”_

There’s a silence. Then a hiccup.

_“That’s it. No tears, now. You don’t want the Dragon to come and get you, do you?”_

_“No.”_

_“There’s a boy. If you do this, he will ne-v-er bother you again...”_

John listens on to the end, a bight flare of rage growing in his chest until it breaks open. He kicks the small table by one of the armchairs, sending it and it’s contents scattering all over the floor. It’s not as satisfying as he thought it would be, and a coldness seeps into his limbs. He presses his palms into his eyes, hard.

“God...that _bitch._ I should have never — _God!”_

“I echo your sentiments,” Mycroft says, voice dark and full of that quiet, dangerous fury. John looks at him, seeing the hard glint in his eye, sparking like tinder, waiting to ignite. John knows this look well. He’s seen it on his own face time and time again, whenever what is his is threatened. For the first time, John appreciates just how dangerous this man really is, and a shiver trickles down his spine.

“Do you know who that is?”

“She goes by many aliases, but she is known most commonly as The Woman,” he says, pulling out his phone and texting rapidly. “She’s been on our radar for years. Primarily she deals in blackmail, and has even given interpol a run for it’s money on occasion. She’s as slippery as an eel, however. None of the charges ever seem to stick, and she has quite the vendetta against me.”

“Why you?”

Mycroft glances up at him for a moment before resuming his texting. “Amongst various other roles, she also operates as a dominatrix. Apparently, whips and chains and submission are a fertile ground for reaping her many secrets. Consequently, I have been speculating for quite some time that she is the very woman my own father dealt with in the past. This only further adds to my theories.”

John pinches the skin between his brows. “What — what does that —?”

“I believe she is Sherlock’s biological mother,” Mycroft says succinctly.

John gapes at him. _“What?!”_

“There have been several indications that she is, in fact, the one who conceived my brother.”

“Indications? Such as?” John says, trying his best to fight down the incredulity.

“Simply...” Mycroft hesitates a moment before clearing his throat. “Simply because she is in league with my greatest rival.”

“Moriarty,” John says, voice hoarse. The realisation feels like a thunderbolt. “You mean Moriarty.”

“Indeed. The enemy of my enemy, and all that.”

“But I thought you got rid of her and never heard from her again? How could _you_ not know this was going on for _years.”_

“I underestimated,” Mycroft says, shifting uncomfortably in the chair at his admission. “Plastic surgery has come a long way, and The Woman’s talents at subterfuge are unparalleled, especially with the resources she’s been afforded at Moriarty’s side.”

“I guess even the almighty MI6 has it’s limits,” John remarks, the venom in his tone plain.

Mycroft scowls. “James Moriarty is like a spider perched in the center of a web. He is not beholden to rules, nor does he care about the destruction he leaves in his wake — so long as it cannot be traced back to him. He is free to orchestrate chaos to suit his whims, and for nearly a decade, he and I have been engaged in a battle of wills, so to speak. For the longest time my brother was the ace up his sleeve to which I was unaware. I firmly believe had you not intervened when you did, the consequences would have been unthinkable...” he trails off, a hunted sort of look crouching in his eyes. John goes cold at the dark thoughts behind everything he _didn’t_ say. Before he can remark on...any of that, Mycroft’s phone pings, and he raises his infamous eyebrows.

“Dr. Watson. If I may,” he says, standing and walking towards the kitchen. “I believe tea is needed. And if you would be so kind as to answer the door.”

“Wha —”

There is a knock at the street door, and John claps his mouth shut. Mycroft simply tilts his head in the direction of the stairs before resuming his hunt for the electric kettle. Shaking his head, he wipes sweaty palms on his jeans and heads for the foyer, his bad leg trembling with stress and fatigue.

He intercepts Mrs. Hudson in the corridor, and ushers he back to her flat, unsure of who or what lies behind that door. Although, it’s somewhat anticlimactic when he opens it a moment later and reveals a rather short young woman with ginger hair braided into pigtails.

“Er. Yes, hello?”

“Dr. John Watson,” she says, and it isn’t a question. “Kitty Reilly. Is Mr. Holmes upstairs?”

“Erm...” he replies, but she doesn’t wait and squeezes herself past him and the door, jogging up the steps. “Come in, won’t you? ‘Don’t mind if I do.’ Kettle’s just boiled,” he says sarcastically to himself, and follows Kitty Reilly.

When he manages to reach the sitting room he finds the two of them bent over John’s laptop again, talking about a mile a minute, and John feels like he doesn’t even recognise his own life anymore. Especially when he hears them going on about “blackmail” and “exploitation” and “CAM Global.”

“Excuse me.”

“— yes, but you see it’s the perfect opportunity to bring them both down.”

“I think you are getting ahead of yourself, Ms. Reilly, Magnussen shall not be touched—”

 _“Excuse_ me.”

“— The information we have is good, Mr. Holmes. My sources are sound.”

“Your 'sources' are nothing but a bunch of vagrants and junkies who —”

“HEY!” John finally shouts, losing his temper. Both heads snap to him, instantly at attention. “Will someone please tell me what in God’s bloody name is going on, and what this has to do with Sherlock?”

“Ah, yes, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft says, straightening his tie. “Tea?”

“Mycroft, I swear to God —”

“He’s safe, Dr. Watson,” Kitty says stepping forward as if she wants to put a hand on his shoulder. She thinks better of it last second, and clasps her hands in front her. “Sherlock is safe, and I can take you both to him.”

John breathes out, slow and shaky. He turns his face up and away as the sudden rush of tears pricks at his eyes. They are borne from exhaustion and a relief so profound, he has to take a moment to fend them off. This. This is all he’s wanted to hear for the past four hours now.

When he finally feels more in control he firms his jaw, and gestures towards the door.

“Please, Ms. Reilly.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft says taking up his umbrella that was hooked over the desk chair. “We will continue this in due course. My assistant already has a car waiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I know s4 disappointed a lot of people, and one of the things I want to do is finish up this story as a way to hopefully make up for the way a lot of us were left feeling shell shocked by the finale. I appreciate you all who have taken this story for what it is, for this somewhat unconventional relationship between John and Sherlock, and trust me when I say we all deserve a happy ending for that. So hang tight loves. Only a handful of chapters are left I think.
> 
> (P.S. By the way...trivia answer revealed: the statue of the "man in the funny hat" that Sherlock passes by Madame Tussaud's is, in fact a commemorative statute of Sherlock Holmes wearing his infamous deerstalker. lol How's that for some crazay meta. *snerk*)


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guuuyysss! I finally got all moved and settled, and finally figured out my lifeeeee. So because of that I've had more time to work on this and other projects. I wanted to tell you all how wonderful you guys have been, and if you're still with me for this last leg of the race, God bless you. I haven't had time to lovingly reply to each and every comment, but just know that you all make my day and chase the shadows away. :D

John stares down at his hands clenched tightly in his lap, tracking the play of shadows the street lights make as they pass over head.

Mycroft and Miss Reilly are across from him in the sleek town car, conversing intently. John tries to tune in from time to time, but he keeps getting distracted by the simplest of things. He also can’t seem to stop the tremors from rearing up in both of his fists.

“Sherlock described the device that was given to him by Adler. It was definitely a flash drive, and I am betting the Bruce Partington Plans are on them among...other sensitive material.”

John snaps his head around when he hears Sherlock’s name. “Sorry, what was that?”

Reilly turns her attention to him. “Adler. Irene Adler was the woman you met. She was recently in contact with one of my sources, Kate, and she assured me that Adler was compiling evidence to bring down Moriarty, as well as Charles Augustus Magnussen.”

“Magnussen...should I know that name?” John asks.

“He’s the CEO of CAM Global news,” Mycroft says. “And as I’ve explained to Miss Reilly, he is _not_ to be touched.”

“Only when you’re this closely involved, you mean,” Kitty grumbled. “I will take him down one of these days, Mr. Holmes.” She looks back at John. “Magnussen has a lot of dirt on a _lot_ of people, and as a journalist myself —”

“An _investigative_ journalist,” Mycroft adds as if this is both relevant and insulting. Kitty simply talks over him, and John can’t help but want to grin, just a little.

“— I understand the responsibility to report the truth for the sake of both the public and the subject. Magnussen doesn’t care about facts as long as it sells. Some of what he reports is just credible enough for him not to be brought down, however, a vast majority doesn’t stand up to rigourous fact checking.”

“That’s all very interesting, but what does this have to do with Sherlock?” John says.

“Adler wanted to break free of Moriarty, that much is certain. But how does one escape the thrall of a cobra? You de-fang him,” she says with not a little bit of glee.

“Exposing James Moriarty to the public, would also expose him to his many, many enemies; in particular, those who would wish to usurp him,” Mycroft adds blithely, inspecting his fingernails.

“And this Magnussen guy has secrets on Moriarty?” John says.

“Magnussen has secrets on _everyone,”_ Mycroft says gravely, darting a pointed look at Kitty.

“But —” Kitty says.

“One battle at a time, Miss Reilly,” Mycroft says. It is an order not to be trifled with, and a warning. There is a tense silence between the two, before Kitty finally concedes.

“So this flash drive thing,” John starts. “That’s what Sherlock was supposed to deliver? To who — you?”

“Not to me, no. That’s where everything’s gone pear-shaped. I was only supposed to be contacted in case the original plan should fail.”

“And what was the original plan?” John says, jaw clenching. For them to involve Sherlock in this stupid game of theirs was insanity.

“Sherlock was friends with a homeless boy when he was living with Mr. Hope. His name is Bill Wiggins. Really brilliant when it comes to computers. He was in cooperation with Ms. Adler, and originally he was supposed to leak the info on the web, leaving me as an indirect source so I could maintain my position at CAM Global. But he was taken, along with the flash drive, and now I have to abandon my post, as it were.”

John sits back in his seat, mind reeling. This, all this — corporate espionage, criminal masterminds, all of it was just — unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable.

“Listen. I don’t care about any of this, all right?” John says, a growl in his throat. “But after tonight, Sherlock is done. No more, do you hear me? He’s not a pawn,” John says glaring at both of them. “Because if anything happens to him, you won’t have to worry about criminal empires and _rigourous fact checking_ when I’m through,” John says, deathly calm.

The car slows to a stop.

“Are you threatening to come out of retirement, _Captain_ Watson?” Mycroft says with an interested glint.

“Take me to my son,” John says instead, ignoring the implied undercurrent of Holmes’s words.

“This way,” Kitty Reilly says, and pops open the door.

John’s heart is pounding as she leads them to an unassuming block of flats in a nondescript neighborhood. She knocks on a door at ground level and a moment later, a younger man, slightly overweight with curly hair and glasses, answers.

“Kit!” he says opening the door wide.

“Craig. How’s the decryption going?” she says, proceeding them into the small flat.

“Just about done,” he says, looking at John and Mycroft with interest. He lands on John. “I ‘spect I have someone who wants to see you, Dr. Watson.”

“Yes,” John says, clearing his throat. He doesn’t bother himself with wondering how this stranger knows who he is, because nothing so trivial matters. Sherlock is all that matters, and John’s heart pounds with a physiological need to see him in the flesh and make sure he’s all right. “Where is he?”

“In the sitting room through here with Toby,” Craig says showing them around a corner and into the absurdly tiny living space.

Three quarters of the room is occupied with a desk, a bank of hard drives, and no less than four computer monitors. Across from that is a shabby sofa covered in technicolour afghans, nearly moth-eaten within an inch of their lives. A wizened blood hound lifts his head from where he is curled up around something on the floor in a make-shift nest of pillows. When John gets closer he can just make out a tuft of curly black hair peeking out from under a mottled quilt. _Sherlock._

John immediately crouches down, halting when the blood hound gives a low warning growl.

“Hey there, boy. Toby is it?” John says reading his collar. “You’ve been taking care of Sherlock, is that right?” He extends his hand to let the dog sniff, and after a minute of wet and thorough snuffling, Toby seems to approve of John and flops back down with a grunt. John gives him a scratch. “Good boy.”

John sits down on the floor, and gently folds a blanket away from Sherlock’s face. He’s fast asleep, and from what John can tell, unharmed if a little dirty. John lets out a shaky breath that threatens to turn into a sob, but catches it before it can emerge. He strokes his fingers through Sherlock tangled and matted hair, hands steady for the first time in hours.

“Sherlock,” he says. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock drowsily blinks awake, and when he focusses, he sucks in a little gasp. “John?”

“Hi.”

Those blue eyes fill with tears, and he brings his hands up to cover his face. He gives an abortive little sob before silencing himself, shaking with distress.

“Hey, now,” John says, attempting to remove Sherlock’s hands, but they won’t budge. John hunkers down on his side on the hard floor, and cages him, framing Sherlock’s head between strong hands. He still continues to stroke the hair at his temples, humming quietly under his breath until Sherlock starts to calm down a little.

“M’sorry,” Sherlock says with a hoarse croak, finally lowering his hands just a little so he could see. John holds him, gazing back for a moment before bringing their foreheads together, eyes closed.

“I was so scared, Sherlock,” John admits, voice hushed. “So scared.”

Sherlock uncurls a little more, and timidly wraps his arms around John’s neck. “I’m sorry, Papa.”

“What were you thinking, hm?” John says, chiding gently. “Why didn’t you come to me?”

“She said I couldn’t. It was against the rules.”

“Telling me when you’re in trouble is never against the rules, okay?” Sherlock doesn’t look convinced. “Hey. _Okay?”_

“Okay,” he whispers, and John hugs him tighter.

“Meeerrp?”

John pulls back, blinking in confusion. “What —?”

Sherlock’s face lights up. Very carefully, he pushes down the rest of the quilt, putting a finger up to his lips. John sits up a little, and peers down. There, curled up against Sherlock’s side, is a small, grey fluff of a kitten, peeping back at him with big yellow eyes. “Look, John. It’s a kitty cat. Her name is Silver. All of the other kittens got adopted, but nobody wanted this one because she is so small and shy.”

“Is that so?” John says, scritching the kitten under its chin. He knows he’s in trouble when he sees the adoration on Sherlock’s face, and sure enough about four seconds later…

“Can we keep her? Please? She’s really smart and she needs a family,” Sherlock says.

“Hm, we’ll see, Bones,” he says, already planning on paying Mrs. Hudson extra in rent if need be.

The computers behind him whistle and beep, and Kitty Reilly makes a triumphant noise.

“Well done, Craig!” she exclaims.

“Indeed, Mr. Kent; Dr. Watson, I believe we could use your expertise,” Mycroft says.

John rolls his eyes and makes a silly face, causing Sherlock to giggle quietly, and gets to his feet. He wraps the quilt around Sherlock’s shoulders, leaving him to play with the kitten, and joins the others crowded around one of Craig’s monitors.

A series of windows cascade on the screen when Craig double clicks a file. The top panel showcases an electronic dossier, a picture of two very familiar faces under the name “MORAN.” It was obviously taken before the brothers underwent their radical transformations, their hair still military short, their faces still quite tan. Mycroft was right about how effective plastic surgery is now-a-days. They look nothing like the impostor at the trial — nothing like the bodies in the morgue. If it wasn’t for the matching birthmarks, the faded tattoos, and those eyes — those feral, gimlet eyes —John wouldn’t have been able to pin point them at all. These were the Moran brothers he knew so well. The recognition in the form of a sharp inhalation is not lost on Mr. Holmes.

“Friends of yours?”

“Not friends, no.”

“Ah, but they were a part of your unit before you retired.”

“I didn’t _retire,_ I was shot,” John corrects mildly.

“Come, now. You and I both know that isn’t the complete truth,” Mycroft says, a grin stretching across his face. John doesn’t rise to the bait, however, and gives an indifferent sniff. Mycroft purses his lips into that sucked-lemon expression, and John tries to contain his smirk.

“So this is evidence that the Morans are definitely in league with Moriarty. Or, ‘were’ rather,” John says, manouvring the conversation in a different direction for the second time.

“What do you mean?” Kitty says.

“Well, they look quite a bit different, but if you were to check with Detective Inspector Lestrade, he would tell you the two bodies currently in the morgue are a DNA match to the Morans.” John narrows his eyes as he takes a closer look at the files on the screen. They widen a moment later when he realises what exactly he’s reading. “Wait...this...how does this file even _exist?”_ He pales drastically, his horrified gaze trapped on the words that blew his world apart.

“Operation: _Genghis Khan,”_ Mycroft says. “What can you tell me about it, Captain Watson?”

“What. You mean you don’t know?” John snaps, trying to hide his obvious flinch at the words. He clasps his hands tightly behind his back.

“I’m afraid regarding matters such as these, you have had higher security clearance than I do,” he says, a subtle note of steel in his voice.

“Well, then. I’m not at liberty to disclose —”

“You are. As of today, my clearance, and the clearance of anybody in the room has been raised due to matters of National Security.”

“But —”

“That’s a direct order of disclosure, Watson,” Holmes nearly barks, the directive burrowing deep in him, uprooting his civilian roots, and flinging him back into a world rigid with obedience, regiment, and a clear chain of command.

John opens his mouth in shock before shutting it with a muted click. His spine straightens even more, his shoulders taut. “Sir…” The thought fails to form, however, and suddenly it all becomes too much. That locked safe sealed tightly in his head is beginning to crack, the number dial spinning faster and faster until the tumblers of his mind give with an explosive click.

Distantly, he hears the echo of gunshots and feels the scorching sand on his face…

_‘My son! Help my son!’_

The buildings on that deserted street stretch up to the maroon sky like some awful homage to a Dali painting.

_‘Watson, we have to go!’_

Explosions. The sensation of dust particles falling on him from cracked ceilings.

_‘I’ve been shot. Murray! Get out, get out, now!’_

Black and white blur into twisted red…so much red...

“Dr. Watson?” Kitty says, laying a gentle hand on his forearm.

John snaps out of it, closing eyes that are glazed over with a fugue of memories. His fingernails slice into his palms as he tries to keep them clasped behind his back in a parody of parade rest.

 _“Captain,”_ Holmes orders, and John’s eyes fly open.

“‘Operation: Genghis Khan’ was a top secret mission handpicked for the government’s first and only Elite Ops Unit. The objective was a clear one: extraction, and it ended in complete and utter failure. There were twelve of us, and by the time it was over, only four made it out.” John grinds to a halt, his throat a tangle of barbed wire. Disobeying the long-standing Order...putting words to the events, _reliving_ them...is a lot harder than he ever fathomed. The air seems thinner all of a sudden, and for a moment he is plagued with an eerie sense of double-vision: the things he has seen superimposed over the reality in front of him, and it makes his head pound.

A small hand curls around his fingers and startles him back to the present. John looks down into Sherlock’s pale face, registers the crease between his son’s brows, and the vice twisting up his spine releases with weary resignation. Slowly, stiffly, he comes back to himself, his muscles shaking slightly from strain and stress. He feels like falling apart, but he looks at the worry in Sherlock’s blue eyes, and knows he can’t.

John grabs a wooden chair, and pulls Sherlock into his lap. The smell of his slightly sour, downy curls soothes him, and as if he is instinctively attuned to this, Sherlock curls up even tighter in John’s arms, head firmly under the lee of John’s chin. He runs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and takes a deep breath. The brutality and the horror isn’t any easier to pick through once the dam has broken, but the solid presence against him makes navigating through the wreckage bearable.

“Genghis Khan was the code name for a dangerous and highly sought after piece of technology...” John continues after a moment. “...I’m not sure what it is exactly. They only told us that it was located on an external hard-drive in a vault in the centre of enemy headquarters. Enemy headquarters being in this case a smaller, more radical branch of the Taliban called Tariq. Apparently, what ever this was, it was a game-changer in illegal weapons dealing. According to intelligence, the Tariq were unequipped to do anything with it and were waiting for a buyer instead. Recovery of the item was top priority, and if Elite Ops didn’t act soon, it would most likely vanish into the aether.

“My unit was sent in, but the Tariq were waiting for us. They knew we were coming, and slaughtered us. The mission failed, and no one has heard hide nor hair of Genghis Khan since. They sealed the records, and ordered us all not to speak...well those who were left. At the time only my commanding officer and myself were extracted to safety. I don’t remember much aside from waking up in the hospital when they informed me of how pear-shaped the operation went. And then the boys in blue gave me my honourable discharge and that was the end of that,” John says.

There is a silence when he finishes, and John trains his eyes on the far wall, not willing to see what is written on the others’ faces. He has a feeling it’s pity, and that has never sit well with him in the past.

Someone clears their throat, breaking the silence. “Well...it’s obvious these Morans were the ones to blow everyone’s cover,” Craig says.

“It wasn’t obvious at the time,” John says, no inflection in his voice. “In fact, it wasn’t until after I returned to London that I heard they were rescued nearly three months after the operation. They had been held hostage, interrogated, and possibly tortured, and yet they didn’t want to be discharged. If it weren’t for the failed psych-eval, they probably would have remained in the service, not to mention Elite Ops.”

“How did you come upon this information? Your previous CO, I assume?” Mycroft says.

John nods. “Major James Sholto. The Morans reached out to him when they were discharged. James didn’t say, but the implication was clear...”

“They tried to convince him to be a free-lancer,” Kitty surmises.

“Yeah...”

“Do you know if Major Sholto ever took them up on their offer?” Kitty says, a gleam in her eye.

“He didn’t.”

“You know this for certain? Because he might be a possible ‘in’ when it comes to —”

“I know,” John says, cutting her off.

“Have you been in contact recently? Because —”

“I _know_ because James Sholto killed himself three days after we had this conversation,” he deadpans. Kitty gapes for a second before shutting her mouth and averting her gaze.

“Hm,” Mycroft says. “And I suppose that’s when the Brothers Moran started calling _you.”_

“I never picked up,” John says, staring determinedly at Mycroft. “Once I changed my number, the phone calls stopped.”

“Weren’t you ever tempted?” Mycroft smirks.

“Mercenary life isn’t for me.”

“I wouldn’t believe you even if Genghis Khan himself were to swear by it,” Mycroft says with a sardonic and bitter edge. The look in his eye is predatory, as if he can somehow get John to admit to succumbing to the baseness of his brutal instincts. Yes, it’s true John still kept his gun along with a forged passport, but he never once considered the merc trade, even at his lowest point of purposelessness.

Before he can disappoint Mycroft with a few succinct words, Sherlock, who had been sitting quietly in John’s lap the whole time, suddenly pipes up with a drowsy little murmur.

“Changes Song.”

John looks down at the top of Sherlock’s head. “Hm?” he says. Sherlock’s eyes are half open, and he blinks up at John, half-awake.

“Changes Song,” he says again with a sigh. “He keeps saying it wrong...”

“What do you mean, Sherlock?” Mycroft says, sitting forward in his seat, that hawk-like attention honed directly on Sherlock. “Do you mean Genghis Khan?”

“You’re not saying it right,” Sherlock says with a cranky little whine. He’s clearly exhausted, it being past midnight like it is, and even though he is a remarkably mature five-year-old, he is still five. “It’s called the Changes Song,” he says, making an agitated motion with his hands.

“Why does it matter what it’s called?” Mycroft says. Sherlock scrunches his face, and suddenly his agitation morphs into an unnamed distress. Moisture pools in the corners of Sherlock’s eyes, and he keeps doing that thing with his hands — fingers twitching, right hand tapping a pattern against his left set of knuckles, his breath coming in pants.

“It _matters!_ You have to do it the right way or you’ll get in trouble!” Sherlock says, practically shouting.

“Woah, hey Bones,” John says, turning Sherlock around in his lap and tilting his chin up. “You’re safe, Sherlock. You’re here with me, yeah?” Sherlock blinks, confused at first, and then ashamed as he hides his face.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says.

“Don’t start,” John says, cupping the back of his boy’s head and bringing him in against his chest. “It’s been a long day for all of us and I think we’ve had enough.”

“Doctor Watson, if I may —” Kitty says as John stands, hoisting Sherlock higher up on his hip.

“No we’re done.”

“John,” Mycroft says, rising with elegance and a placating hand. “Please,” he says.

John pauses at that, unsure if he’s ever heard that particular word from the omnipotent British Government. “What are you hoping to get out of him? Is it really that important right now?” John says, lowering his voice. A large part of him wants to protect Sherlock and just take him home away from this nightmare of a day, but another smaller, yet equally significant part of him recognises the earnest set to the elder Holmes’s face. It’s a face he’s seen plenty of times on Sherlock when his mind is working on a level higher than John’s own ever could.

There is a beat, and John appreciates Mycroft taking a moment to consider before he responds. He looks somewhat reluctant, looking between them before finally giving a decisive nod and motioning for John to retake his seat. John does so, settling Sherlock on his knee. He bounces him a little, trying to get him to stop hiding behind his hands.

“Hey, Bones,” John murmurs, kissing his temple. 

Mycroft comes around and kneels in front of them. “Come out, you little cretin,” he says, voice gentle. In his hand is the tiny grey kitten who gives a plaintive little _mew._ “Oh yes, Silver, I quite agree. He’s being quite unreasonable.”

Sherlock peeps out from behind his fingers, and with only a little hesitation, pulls the kitten into his arms.

“M’not unres’able,” he mumbles into its fur with a grumpy pout.

“Perhaps not,” Mycroft says with a smirk. “That is why you are going to tell me about this song of yours, aren’t you?’

Sherlock kisses the kitten on her fuzzy head, and sighs up at Mycroft. “Can’t tell you. _Show_ you.”

Mycroft arches his eyebrows expectantly, and Sherlock gives another very put-upon sigh as he moves Silver up onto his shoulder. He then instructs Mycroft to hold out his hands, palms down.

John watches in fascination as Sherlock then begins to hum a tune while tapping on Mycroft’s fingers as if they were piano keys. Aside from being a lovely little melody, John fails to see the significance, and judging by a quick glace at everyone else, he isn’t the only one who is puzzled. It isn’t until the melody repeats that Mycroft’s face lights up in recognition.

“Is that —?” Craig says, scrambling for a pen and paper.

“Mm, yes I believe so, Mr. Kent.”

“Bloody hell.”

“What? What is it?” Kitty says, handing Craig the much sought after pen from her jacket pocket.

“It’s binary,” Craig says eagerly. “Transposed into beats and rhythms.”

“Binary?” John says. That was what...something with computers?

“Yes. More specifically, the ‘Changes Song’ is a code, and what I believe was on that hard-drive Elite Ops failed to recover,” Mycroft says.

“ _This_ is Genghis Khan?” John says, listening as Sherlock hums through the melody once more. “What is it?”

“I am not sure,” Mycroft says, straightening from his crouch. “But we are going to find out, right Mr. Kent?”

“You got it,” Craig says, fingers flying over dual keyboards at a rate that doesn’t help John’s blooming headache.

“Papa?” Sherlock says, eyes heavy, kitten clutched close to his chest with his poor bandaged hand. “Can we go home, now?”

John shudders out an exhausted breath and rises once more to his feet. “Yes. Home,” he says, tucking Sherlock securely in the folds of his jacket to keep him warm.

“My driver will take you back to Baker Street,” Mycroft says, walking with them out to the car in question. He adjusts his cuffs with a deft flick before opening the passenger door for them. However, before shutting it he pauses, ducking slightly into the cabin. Hesitating only a moment, he runs a careful hand through Sherlock’s curls in a move that stuns John with its simple and utter humanness. “Well done today, Sherlock. You are a brave boy, and I’m proud of you.”

Sherlock blinks at him before turning away and pressing his face bashfully against John’s shoulder.

John, overcome with a well of gratitude that isn’t begrudging for once, merely nods. Mycroft acknowledges with a tight nod of his own, and shuts the door before banging on the roof.

The car sets off in the direction of Baker Street, and they are finally — _finally_ — headed home, and if John holds Sherlock just that much tighter, not once does he feel ashamed for doing so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The music that Sherlock hums sounds kind of like [this.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JcJWbFRPkx8)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1357990) by [Paralelsky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paralelsky/pseuds/Paralelsky)




End file.
